


Harry Potter and the Cursed Mark

by hes5thlazarus



Series: Snakes & Wizards [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Naruto
Genre: Book 5 crossover, Dark Magic, Friendship, Fullmetal Alchemist fushion/inspiration, Howl's Moving Castle (Diana Wynne Jones) fushion/inspiration, Spies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2018-11-09 01:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11093979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hes5thlazarus/pseuds/hes5thlazarus
Summary: Triple-cross! Mitarashi Anko of the Village Hidden in the Leaves joins Severus Snape as one of Dumbledore's agents, seeking to train the Boy-Who-Lived to understand his mental connection to Lord Voldemort. Snape thinks that they really didn't need to hire a goddamn technicolor ninja to fill the DADA position, but at least it's not one of Fudge's underlings taking charge--wait, he has to put up with her anyway? More seriously, Anko and Severus discover a connection between their cursed marks and the Potter boy's scar, Dumbledore expedites the plot, and Voldemort weaves an insidious plot, inspired by Lord Orochimaru, to take over the Resistance--from the inside.





	1. A Letter from the East

Harry Potter and the Cursed Mark: A Book Five Crossover

Severus Snape took the Tube to Islington Station, wanting the time to collect himself. He had had dinner with Lucius at a French bistro on Frantick Alley, upset with their meeting with the Dark Lord. Most things did; it was why he was such a good spy. No one could ever tell what made him so scornful, so sneering, so furious--but he knew, human stupidity, that always gave him ulcers. He closed his eyes against the fluorescent lights of the train and zoned into the rhythmic jostling of the car trundling along. The Dark Lord was hiring a second spy; he was hiring a fucking ninja--a  _ ninja _ to apply for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. It all sounded like a bad episode of  _ Doctor Who _ . Lucius agreed, albeit ignorant of Severus’ internal reference.

Lucius had been elegantly eviscerating a plate of foie gras. Severus remembered tension budding behind his forehead, as light flashed off his knife. Lucius had always been a hands-off sort of sadist, more crooning, manipulate--Slytherin. Bellatrix liked playing with knives. This sort of waste was uncharacteristic. 

“I’m worried, Severus,” he finally announced. “I’m worried for Draco’s education. I’m worried for your position. The Dark Lord wants you to play the long game--but sending in a second spy, a mercenary, without proper conviction.” His hand clenched around his knife, his pale fingers turned florid. “Who knows what sort of games she’ll play? To get in with the Muggle-lovers and blood-traitors, who knows what she’ll teach them?”

“The Dark Lord does what he deems right,” Severus said blandly. He was craving a very fresh onion, plucked from his garden, some fennel--nothing overstuffed. His stomach was roiling. “And what he deems right is what we follow. His wisdom may seem inscrutable, but we will see that he was right. He,” he looked Lucius dead in the eye, “ _ always _ is.”

The dinner passed quickly after that, Severus surrendered a ridiculous amount to the cheque, he walked Lucius to the apparation point, where Frantick Alley met Diagon. He grasped Lucius’ arm.

“Slytherin House will take care of its students,” he said. “Draco will know his Dark Arts.”

Lucius almost smiled. They had known each other for nearly twenty-four years. Lucius had seen the scrap of potential in the half-Muggle millrat and taught him his manners; Severus had seen the love for his country and culture beyond the bigotry. They had been Marked together. They had survived the first few terrible years, after the Dark Lord’s fall--and somehow they were braving his rise.

The train pulled into Islington Station and Severus climbed out of the station, wandlessly casting a Notice-Me-Not charm and letting his coat lengthen into his robes, striding out towards Grimmauld Place. Albus had to know, Albus probably knew already--but would he have to tell him in front of the others?

Muggle manner hidden away, Severus waited for the house to squeeze into seeing. He breathed, let the Occlumency mask adjust his face into stone, and walked into the fray.

The portrait of Walburga Black was screaming, apoplectic, at her niece’s daughter, splayed out over a troll-leg umbrella stand. “BLOOD-TRAITOR, DIRTY-BLOOD, IN MY HOUSE, I ORDERED YOU OUT, NO BLOOD OF MINE--”

Roughly Severus drew Tonks up. “Thanks,” she said shakily. “Never quite see it coming.

Severus grunted as they hurried to draw the curtains across: “CLIMBERS AND THIEVES OF THE BLOOD, UNGRATEFUL AND UNDESERVING, DESECRATING MY MOST NOBLE HOUSE--”

“Pleasant lady,” Tonks remarked conversationally. Her hair was pink, blue at the tips, arranged into a mohawk. She looked like the punks he used to fear, walking home late at night in Spinner’s End. She was trying to make good with him, probably read his file, did Moody prompt her? She was his student, one of his first, in the first few bad years, after Lily’s death, after everyone died--though clumsy, adept with reasoning out theory. If he had enough energy to like anything those days, he might have appreciated her. “You ever meet her?”

Severus looked at her stonily, and gestured for her to enter the meeting-room, before him.

Tonks chuckled nervously. “Guess it’s not something I’d want to remember, either--wotcher, Kingsley!” Hastily she made her way away. Severus, under the Occlumency shield, clinically concluded: Moody put her up to it.

The elder male Weasleys, Sturgis Podmore, Emmeline Vance, and Kingsley Shacklebolt were surveying a collection of scrolls outlining the basement levels of the Ministry for Magic. Albus wanted them proofing exits, in case of a coup d’etat. Severus thought the information was useful in the long term, but short term a bit too emphasized--the Dark Lord was pointedly trying to stay out of the news, consolidating his power base before letting terror loose. The Death Eaters had gotten too soft, slinking towards middle aged respectability. They would at least wait until Severus had trained their children. Fools, self-destructive reckless dunderheads, the lot of them.

“Severus,” Sturgis said, looking up. “Come look at this. Do you remember the Beltane raid?” Severus strode over; the Weasleys tensed, but Emmeline summoned an impatient chair. He liked Sturgis, to be honest. Sturgis had been a few years ahead of him in Slytherin, liked the same music, liked getting stoned. He remembered a few reckless nights in the Greenhouses with the Huff-Puff crew--Lily had hated it, thought they were all greasy creeps, but she was from the other side of the Cokeworth River, wasn’t she? They had worked together in breaking some of the nastier curses the Death Eaters had left for the unaligned pureblood families, quietly of course, unofficially, but he remembered.

“Before my time,” Severus said evenly, ignoring the seat Emmeline patted. The Weasley patriarch choked: as if he didn’t think the spy’s history would be useful, just shameful. Between Gryffindor self-righteousness and Moody paranoia, Severus was wondering if he would be pilloried before the Dark Lord even caught wind of his betrayal. Idiots: it would be so easy to plant a spy in the Weasleys, they would only have to be loud and Quidditch-mad and charmingly racist. Where was Albus? “The Lestranges led it. Brute force broke down the door and got them not much farther than that before the attack shrubs chased them out.”

Emmeline snorted. “Hardly the spirit of Slytherin discretion.” She had been Slytherin, two years below him, when Lucius was attempting to model House pride on the Roman model--she never had to deal with Bellatrix’s decidedly byzantine fits.

“The House changed,” Sturgis shrugged. “Anyway, Severus, take a look at this--Kingsley’s suggesting lining the left halfway with Ogham wards, to power the shrubbery--”

“Lord Voldemort,” enunciated Emmeline, and Severus’ hand spasmed towards his arm, Sturgis’ mouth jerked, and the Weasleys jumped as one, “would hardly use the same unsuccessful strategy twice. Let the shrubbery be, and focus on the lobby. The most efficient, the most ironic--humiliating to his enemies.”

Sturgis scowled, his hard jaw jutting out like an angry cliff. “But he hates to be humiliated, and showing his strength and Ministry oversight--”

“Where there are twenty other basements and three different sectors to go through,” Emmeline returned. “We need to have a general guard plan and then narrow to the specifics--”

“Better to be thorough than miss detail in the first place, find the weak points--”

“I wonder,” Kingsley’s deep, calming drawl curled into the spaces of the words, “how well-guarded the primary entrance is. If he wants the--”

Severus cleared his throat. “What,” he enunciated, jerking his chin at a long, fleshy string snaking its way through the dusty chandelier, “is that?”

Arthur sighed and Bill looked grim. Loudly, spatially, Molly Weasley appeared. “I TOLD THEM TO GET RID OF THEM!” she bellowed, bustling towards the exit. “FRED! GEORGE!” Her screams echoed through the house, the string withdrew hurriedly, back up the chandelier through the rotting boards, and the rest of the Order looked up with interest. One took what entertainment one could get in wartime.

“Where’s Albus?” Severus asked Emmeline.

“Kitchen with Remus. Debrief?” She quickly glanced at the Weasleys. Arthur was hurrying after Molly, Bill was sauntering towards Tonks, looking at the ceiling. Cannon fodder, Severus thought.

“I’ll distract Sirius,” Sturgis said. He swept a hand over the scrolls, rolling them all into one thin tube that shrunk as he tucked into his pocket.

Kingsley rose with him. “I’ll fetch Remus.”

Albus had named them the Janus Committee, all of them reputable enough with the rest of the Order and the public in general to save Severus from overt suspicion. Sturgis was a tolerated Ministry cursebreaker at the Improper Use of Magic Office, Kingsley was the rising star detective in the Investigation Department of the Auror Office, and Emmeline was a well-regarded Hit Wizard and activist in Dark Arts education, launching a pro-integration political campaign. Severus found all of them tolerable, even enjoyable, running into them at conferences, advising on the occasional case (his blasted students!), and dueling and training with them at the occasional tournament. Emmeline had even done a stint as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor back in the mid-80s, when everything was sensible, and they had had a good time while it had lasted. Contrary to popular belief, Lucius Malfoy did not make up the extent of his social scene. Regardless, they were generally supportive, and good to work with. They at least helped him balance the Order.

Severus sometimes wondered if Moody would have had him arrested back in June, for showing Fudge the Dark Mark, if Emmeline and Sturgis had not backed Albus up, if Kingsley had not been there to soothe everyone, during that second meeting. Between a rock and a hard place: at least here the only torture was Sirius Black’s demented face.

Down the table, the Weasley breeding couple appeared, Molly jabbering furiously, Arthur looking plaintive. Bill looked resigned and continued resolutely to joke with Tonks, Mundungus Fletcher, and Moody. The rest of the Order was still due to arrive: twenty more minutes. He needed to debrief with Dumbledore, to plan what he could tell them at large. They would have a longer discussion later, and then a planning session with Kingsley and Emmeline. Maybe he would have time to get a few drinks with Sturgis later, before he went off on guard duty. Mundungus lit up a particularly noxious blunt and resolutely Severus schooled his face as Tonks began to cough. She wasn’t so punk, after all.

He had given Kingsley enough time to distract Lupin; Emmeline would keep them both occupied. He rose and rested his hand on her chair as he moved past. She moved to touch his arm. They had had fun that year, and intermittently in years since, but he withdrew, there was no time, she was enough of a target anyway, speaking so bluntly about the Dark Arts’ poison, about the rot in the blood. Merlin he hoped Moody hadn’t noticed that.

Albus was smiling serenely as Kingsley jovially steered Lupin out, Lupin was saying something--“in Russell Square, Black Books, but the proprietor wouldn’t let a single one go, he actually  _ clung _ to the Marquez, he reminded me a bit of, oh, hello Severus,” his tone turned gentle and Severus restrained the impulse to wrap his hands around his throat and slam his skull into the molding wall.

“Lupin,” he said silkily, and jerked away to let him past. Kingsley gave him an odd look as Lupin damnedly sighed and shook his head, did he expect Kingsley to comfort him? Poor little wolf pup with no teeth, everyone needed to chew his food for him. Contanient: Lupin made his skin crawl, he could never fight himself, just looked at everybody with amber wolf’s eyes and drooped them into obedience, the monster in him needed to make a monster of everyone else. Don’t look at me, Severus bit back, fuck off.

“Severus, my boy,” Albus greeted him. “What do you have for me?”

“Is there time?” he stepped into the kitchen. Molly had the cracked enamel and marble finishings cleaning, and an endless shepherd’s pie was sitting in the crockpot. “The D.A.D.A position--”

Albus raised a hand. “After the meeting.” So much for drinks with Sturgis.

 

The meeting was insipid, as always, with the eldest Weasley whelp puffing his chest out at every opportunity, Elphias Doge’s interminable giggle, and Tonks, Molly, and Hestia Jones falling into an argument about a woman’s proper role at the front lines as Dumbledore raised the possibility of guard duty on the Potter brat.

“I don’t see why we can’t just bring him,” Black said. He lounged dangerously in his chair, pushing it onto its hindlegs. Severus’ eyes fixated on the floor--just the gentlest push of wandless magic, and he would be cracking his skull against the wall, but he caught a glance of Albus’ horrendous purple robes, and tore his eyes elsewhere. “The wards would have set in by now, he needs to be around people who care about him. He needs to be prepared!”

“As much as I loathe to agree with the mutt,” Severus drawled, in his best Lucius Malfoy impression, “the Potter boy ought to be trained for the future conflict. This detat will not last--”

“What, has Voldie been having you brew Weapons of Mass Destruction? Getting worried, Snape? Don’t worry, he’ll just have you target some filthy Mu--”

“The Dark Lord has had all his followers on reconnaissance,” Severus snapped, “rather than risk open battle, and with the slime the  _ Prophet _ has been publishing, seeks to discredit Vance’s pro-Muggleborn faction. We cannot be complacent!”

“Has Lucius Malfoy been in to see the Minister lately?” Kingsley seized the opportunity to change the subject.

“Twice last week,” Severus said shortly. “They’re planning the campaign. Malfoy is the primary donor, with Smith and Nott supporting. There is nothing linking the Smith family to the Death Eaters; during the previous terror, Madam Smith sent her children to Miskatonic University. However, she is on the  _ Prophet _ ’s Board of Trustees.”

Black flared. “If you can call the first Voldemort,” flinches and convulsions across the room, “ _ terror _ \--it was a bloody war your people were fighting, and a dirty war!”

Severus rather thought the Dark Lord’s tactics were a rip-off from the Irish Republican Army, actually. Some of the more squeamish Death Eathers--Regulus Black and Evan Rosier in particular--used to claim IRA bombings as their own. Hostile glares pigeonholed him. Severus drew breath. He supposed he was doing his job well, if they all thought he was a double agent.

Albus went very still and very stern. The room’s tension thinned. “Severus had been working for us throughout most of that terrible time, my dear boy. But I fear for Harry’s innocence--he deserves to have as much as a childhood as possible. There is no need to put the weight of the world on his shoulders.” Nods across the room. Severus felt sick--as if they weren’t doing so, already. Lupin was staring at him curiously. Had he let his expression slip? He sneered.

“Exactly!” Molly’s shrill voice piped up. He caught Emmeline’s eye; they looked away. “He’s just a boy! He should be worrying about Quidditch, not fighting You-Know-Who! He doesn’t eat enough, poor boy, thin as a rail.”

Albus shifted almost imperceptibly. “And I am certain Hogwarts will fatten him right up, Molly, when the term begins. Sturgis.”

Sturgis straightened up. “Yeah?”

“Would you guard the entrance in the mornings, as best you can?”

“Remember Augustus Rookwood,” Severus said.

Again, the table stiffened. They hated it when he gave information. What else did they expect a bloody double agent to do? Anyway, Albus knew the name already--and the Dark Lord knew Sturgis had been in the Order.

Sturgis smirked. “Aren’t I a Slytherin?”

Severus stared at him. Rookwood, with his reedy voice and greedy eyes, shone in his mind, prone to the same Aryan esotericism as the Nazis, as the Order of the Golden Dawn, good with a whip, ready with his hand, and always so curious that Muggles had the same color blood as the less mundane.

“So,” Severus said slowly, “is he.”

Albus allocated the rest of the guard: Tonks during the evening, where she could pretend she had gotten lost--Severus, for once in his life, bit back something snide, because he couldn’t quite tell who he wanted to insult--and Hestia Jones would relieve Dung Fletcher in three hours for the Potter. Kinglsey would continue to mislead the Ministry on Black’s whereabouts, and Bill would continue to liaise with the goblins. Molly bustled back to dinner.

“Stay, everyone!” she announced. “There’s a Welsh rarebit for dinner.” 

Severus rose. “Headmaster…”

Albus waved his hand. “Do sit down, Severus. It would be lovely to have a home-cooked meal, don’t you think?” His eyes twinkled. Severus felt the Weasleys’ eyes burn his neck, and Tonks tripped over a chair.

“Present company excluded,” he drawled. He refused to look at Black.

“I have had the most curious letter from the East,” Albus said, “and I would like your perspective before I reply. An applicant for the DADA position.”

Severus gestured at Tonks, who was eavesdropping unashamedly. Tonks flinched away, and tripped again, embarrassed. Sturgis Podmore, passing by, elbowed him and snorted. Severus raised an eyebrow. Albus was smiling.

“I’ll meet you in my office in twenty minutes, then,” Albus allowed. “Do order yourself tea.”

“Headmaster,” Severus nodded, and swept out of the house. Sturgis had already apparated away, and Emmeline was staying for dinner. Someone, besides Moody, had to play the Good Slytherin for this crowd of self-righteous goody Gryffindors. At least it was more easily manipulated than Lucius at his most patronizingly kind. Checking for Muggles, he apparated to the Gates, and entered Hogwarts’ Domain.

Hogwarts: an old Iron Age settlement, added upon, built up, pirouetted onto the lake and onto the sky, how he not forgive the thrill in his stomach whenever he saw it cut against a black night, windows alit twinkling like the stars behind them? He had fallen in love with this castle as a scrap of eleven, dirty and tired and terrified, a millrat from a smoggy Muggle town, and the castle had taken him in, the grounds had hid him. How many times had he found a convenient nook or passageway when when Potter and his gang were chasing him? How many times had he come upon a painting so peaceful that it struck his rage dumb? Hogwarts hid Turners and turns, twisting for those caught so delicately in its web. Prowling these hall, he knew the castle was his, as much as it were Dumbledore’s, as much as it were Filch’s. 

He stopped by his quarters, which he had made so practical, so--dare he even think it-- _ stylish _ these past fourteen, fifteen years, including the time he was teaching half-classes and supervising the choir while he was getting his Master’s of Potions and Doctorate of Thaumaturgical Philosophy. The coffee table held letters, the house elves had delivered them for him. He frowned and flipped through them quickly: one from his Welsh half-siblings, from his father’s previous, well, teen exploration of his sexuality, Nia had been born when Tobias was sixteen--he wondered if Hywl had managed to find King Arthur yet, nevermind Avalon. Another was from his old master in Berlin, Elric von Hohenheim. One packet held a collection of papers from the  _ Journal of Alchemical Potioneering _ to review--something worth his red ink. Unexpectedly he felt his spirits lift. Madam Pomfrey had wanted him on mood stabilizers since he was a boy, but though he was more often down, the uplifts were always worth the wait. He basked in his good mood, and opened his half-brother’s letter, almost chuckling to himself as Hywl described the latest disaster with his Ten-League-Boots--always landing in a cowpatty, even if one walked them from Cardiff to York. Severus entertained the idea of visiting him before the start of term, checking the cobbler’s glue himself rather than asking him to send a sample.

Severus left the letters on the table and swept out to the Headmaster’s office. He had one more month until the term began, and it was best to stick close to Dumbledore, for the Dark Lord--and Merlin knew what either wanted with the  _ ninja _ \--even mentally, he scoffed--teacher. Would they show up all in black waving fancy knives wrapped in silk? It was one way to instill constant vigilance in Potter, he supposed.

“Cockroach clusters,” he intoned to the gargoyle guards.

“What I’d do to taste one,” grumbled the one on the left, but they moved aside to let him pass.

“He’s not there yet!” called the one of the right.

Severus grunted and took his time up the stairs. Albus’ technomancy tools chirped, recalibrating to account for his presence. The aletheiometer attempted to calculate veritrametrics on thoughts unspoken, whirling through its pressure gauge. The thaumameter blew gray spoke. He scowled at it.

“Severus,” Phineas Nigellus’ voice wafted down. “You must do something about your hair.”

Severus glared at the portrait. 

Phineas shrugged, and stroked his admittedly-luxurious beard. “Such promise, and you only ever clean up during vacations! Surely my more dazzling descendents taught you the power of appearance.”

“Yes,” Severus ground. Sirius Black had stuck his head into a toilet on more than one occasion, in their first few years of school, and Regulus had tried to be so Slytherin about leaving shampoo in the shower. A brewer’s hair would never be manageable, though, not without a specially-charmed hairnet--and he did have some pride about his appearance. A remembrance of Longbottom’s boggart seared him:  _ damn _ Lupin.

“Oh, let the boy be,” piped up another headmistress, a charmingly dishevelled Hufflepuff. “Let him play his own games, as long as it makes him feel happy. Ignore him, Severus.”

Phineas leaned forward in his frame. “What’s the latest from the war?”

“You could be more subtle,” Severus told him.

“Bah! I’m dead!” Phineas threw himself back in his chair. “I can be crass.”

Severus snapped his fingers. A house-elf appeared, in a neat Hogwarts pillowcase: Jinky.

“Tea, Master Severus?” he quavered.

Severus nodded sharply. With barely a crack, the elf disappeared. 

“Do add some lemon,” added a Ravenclaw headmaster wistfully. “I do so miss lemons.” Was that why Albus had those sherbet lemons? Severus suspected much of the Headmaster’s office was spent carrying out the habits of living for a vicarious portrait audience. Minerva could take it; he wanted a few more decades of living by himself, before performing for a bound audience. If he had even six months left. The alethiometer chimed. He glared at it. Arithmancy was not necessarily prophecy.

A stand bearing a teatray appeared next to a welcoming winged-back armchair. Severus settled, and pulling a book from a pocket, began to read and drink tea--a history of the wars in the North, the Pagan King, from whom both his mother and Muggle father claimed descent. There was nothing in old stories but comfort, but the lies were comfort nonetheless.

Severus had read through two hundred pages by the time Albus arrived with a whirl of neon fire. Severus raised an eyebrow. He was often late at Grimmauld Place.

“Dementors at Privet Drive,” Albus informed him tersely.

Severus snapped the book shut. “The Dark Lord? Is the boy--ensoulled?” Lily’s protection--had Petunia so weakened it? What had she done to the boy?

“Harry is fine, Severus.” Albus wearily sat himself in his chair. “Fletcher fled. I set Hestia, Remus, and Alastor to organize a team to take him to Headquarters. I had not thought the Dark Lord’s negotiations would work so quickly.”

Severus felt his heart thrum in his chest. The Death Eaters would soon take Azkaban. “He would wait. He does not want to reveal his hand so quickly. He wants to make you worry, he wants to worry you into complacency. Not until the public becomes accustomed to Rita Skeeter’s trash.”

“He’s been expelled.”

Severus did not say  _ I told you so _ . He felt it was the wrong moment.

“But Mafalda Hopkirk is willing to reconsider, with a trial. Fudge wants a full Wizengamot.”

“When is the hearing?”

“Emmeline is to find out. She is... _ friendly _ with Mafalda.”

Severus supposed that was a Victorian way to put “fucking her on alternate Tuesdays since 1993.”

“We’ll certainly know if it’s on a Tuesday night,” Severus said meditatively.

“What?” Albus looked at him curiously, over those half-moon glasses. Severus remained impassive. “Nevermind, Severus. Let Lucius do what he wants with this. Find out, if it is reasonable, whom he bribed for this, and who is negotiating on the inside. But, to a more immediate concern--the letter from the East.”


	2. Defense and the Dark Arts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own this.

“What is she, if she’s not DADA?” Harry said. “She was at my hearing!”

Hermione hushed him. The witch in the pin cardigan continued to chirp along, “...lack of Ministry oversight…”

“Who?” Ron swallowed painfully. He coughed. Hermione tsked again. “The lady in the trenchcoat?”

“No, the pink one. Umbridge.”

“Eurgh. She looks like a toad.”

From down the table, Fred or George caught his eye and began to ribbit softly. Hermione tore herself away from the pink one to glare at him; the noises abated. Must have been Fred, then.

“The trenchcoat--what’s her name, Mitarashi? She’s hot, though. Bet you she won’t last two months before she’s caught in some Slytherin sex scandal.”

“Ronald!” Hermione hissed. Harry hid his grin behind his hand. “Be quiet!”

Ron caught Harry’s eye and they both stuffled their giggles. Harry looked back at the Head Table. Snape was looking at the pink monstrosity with utter disdain; he closed his eyes and exchanged a glance with Professor McGonagall. McGonagall looked like she was sucking on a lemon. Harry looked again at the new professor, Mitarashi: she was pretty in a tough-looking way, broad in the shoulder, with her short hair tightly tied back so it seemed to fan like a halo out of her skull. She wore a tan overcoat over her simple black robes, and some sort of bandana with a metal plate nailed to the cloth around her neck. More competent than Lockhart, Harry supposed, and nicer to look at.

“Is her hair purple? She kinda looks like Tonks,” Harry muttered at Ron.

Hermione shot him an incredulous eye. “She looks nothing like Tonks! Honestly, boys!”

“Shhhhhhh,” Ron uttered sarcastically.

Around them, students were getting restive. Lavender Brown had pulled out a copy of Witch Weekly and was snickering over the fashion pages with Parvati Patil, sending knowing glances at Umbridge’s cardigan and Alice band. Dean Thomas was sketching on his napkin. Fred and George were playing burning tic-tac-toe to an appreciative Seamus.

“I’m bloody tired,” whined Ron. “Merlin’s saggy left tit. Will she ever stop?” Harry stared at his reflection in his goblet, golden-tinged. Boredly he picked at the remnants of treacle tart at his plate. He felt disturbed as Umbridge’s high-pitched voice resolutely prattled through the Great Hall; why was she even here, if she weren’t a professor?

Finally she stopped, and the Hall half-heartedly shook itself to attention. Dumbledore clapped, and several of the teachers followed suit, Snape and the new professor notwithstanding, though only putting their hands together a few times. A few students lukewarmly joined, but before the clamor could gather, Dumbledore stood up. “Thank you very much, Madam Umbridge, that was most illuminating. As I was saying, Quidditch trials will be held…”

“Most illuminating indeed,” Hermione said lowly.

“What?” Ron said. He was looking at his empty plate sorrowfully. “You enjoyed that? Blimey, Hermione, it was like listening to Percy on cauldron bottoms…”

“I didn’t say it was entertaining, Ron!” Hermione looked annoyed.

“Sounded like a load of waffle to me,” Harry interjected, before they could begin arguing again.

“Well, there was a lot of substance in the waffle. ‘Progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged’--I’ll tell you what that means! High Inquisitor? The Ministry’s interfering at Hogwarts!” Plates clattered, chairs were pushed in and cobblestones were scrapped as everyone scrambled to leave the tables. Hermione flushed. “Oh, Ron! We have to lead the first years!” She grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him towards the Gryffindor exit. He rolled his eyes at Harry. “First years, over here! Follow me!”

“Oy, midgets! Come ‘ere!”

“There’s not midgets, Ron!”

“They’re so titchy, Hermione. We couldn’t’ve been that small, back in first year.”

“First years! Follow your prefects!”

Smiling to himself, Harry got up. The new Sortees walked up between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables--they were titchy, Ron was right. Feeling nostalgic, Harry grinned at the smallest of the Gryffindor boys. Hopefully this one wouldn’t be as hyper as Colin, or his even littler brother Dennis. Shyly the boy’s eyes met his, then travelled upward. His eyes widened and his face blanched. Harry’s grin slid off his face and hit his stomach hard, souring in his stomach like Neville’s bloody Stinksap. He nodded goodbye at a concerned-looking Ron and weaved his way through the crowd, hurrying up the stairs, and took one of the concealed corner turns--only to run straight into the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Anko Mitarashi. She dodged him deftly; startled, he backed up and tripped. She held out a hand.

“Alright there?” she said, friendly. Harry ignored her hand and pulled himself up.

“Uh, yeah, sorry.” He brushed off his robes awkwardly. Was she going to stare at him too, whisper or sigh as he left, report him to--to that pink toad, Umbridge?

“I am still coming to know this castle,” Professor Mitarashi said, pulling her hand back. She had a slight lisp over her s’s. “Would you direct me towards Professor Dumbledore’s office?”

“Uh, yeah, um. Take another left at the staircase and go through the door flanked by the Portraits of Obscure Lawmen, and there should be another set of stairs directly in front of you. Just take them straight up and give the password to the gargoyles.”

“Yes, yes,” Mitarashi said meditatively. “Thank you.” She shot a cheerful grin at him. Harry blinked. Her teeth almost seemed sharp, for a second, threateningly so, but he chalked it up to the witchlight torches. “Good luck to run into you! Your name?”

“Uh?” Harry was taken aback, It had been four years since he’d been around people who didn’t know him at first sight. She was a foreigner, after all. He entertained the thought of moving to some Asian country where nobody knew him after Hogwarts briefly, China with Cho Chang to guide him. “Oh! Uh, Harry Potter, ma’am. Fifth year, Gryffindor.”

“Harry Potter,” Mitarashi repeated. “And you know my name already. I see--I will see you in class soon, Mr. Potter. Good night!” She strode off. Harry stared after her, then shrugged. He’d tell Ron and Hermione about it when he got back to the common room--he didn’t know the password. Perhaps if he ran fast enough, he could catch up to the tail-end of the Gryffindor parade.

Harry ran through the hallway, up three different staircases, taking a shortcut through the painted corridor, slapping a high-five onto his favorite suit of armor. Merlin, he loved Hogwarts. Panting, he reached the top of the Gryffindor Tower. Neville was ambling towards the Fat Lady.

“Oy! Neville! Do you know the password?” Harry shouted, sprinting over.

“A good evening to you too, Mr. Potter,” the Fat Lady sniffed.

Neville laughed. “Hey Harry. Yeah, I might actually remember this once, for once.” He presented his ugly cactus to the Fat Lady, who smiled. “Mimbulus mimbletonia!”

The Fat Lady swung open and they made idle chitchat about the Feast and the new Sorting, joking about how Hermione and Ron were settling in as prefects, Harry uncomfortably trying to suppress any jealous satisfaction that both of them were probably going to be ineffective. Still sniggering over the idea of Hermione trying to control the twins, with Ron playing pathetic peacemaker in the background, they stepped into the dorm. This was home--a crackling fire and his mates all unpacking, the worn red-and-orange woven rug in the center of the room, the comfortable four-poster beds. Dean was putting his West Ham posters up again. Seamus glanced up and looked away. Harry felt his face freeze.

Ron was already lounging on the bed, talking about helping the twins with their inventions. Harry plopped down on the bed beside him.

“How were the firsties?”

“Titchy. Hermione wants us to sit down with the senior prefects and begin a nutritional chart for them, can you believe the madness of that woman?”

Dean laughed. “At least she’s not inflicting it on us. Once the twins remember she’s Authority, she’ll learn. She can’t be bad as Percy was.” Harry shot Dean a warning glance. Ron’s face was wooden, but he grunted. Dean continued, “How was your summer anyway?”

“Miserable, but it could’ve been worse,” Harry said, beginning to unlace his trainers. He could have ended up without a soul, or expelled, or killed by Lord Voldemort. “Yours?”

“My mum didn’t want me to come back,” Seamus said suddenly.

“What?” Ron jolted up abruptly. “Why?”

“Cuz of you,” Seamus jerked his chin at Harry, who very forcibly pulled off his shoe. “And Dumbledore.”

“What the fuck did I do?” Harry asked very calmly. He pulled off his other shoe. He didn’t try to smile.

Seamus pressed his lips together nervously, but continued anyway. “She’s been reading the Prophet--”

“What, so she buys into that stupid shit? Thinks me and Dumbledore are just a bunch of nutters? What a stupid--”

“Don’t have a go at my mother, Potter!” Seamus snapped, beginning to rise.

“I’ll have a go at anyone I like, who thinks I--”

Neville coughed. “C’mon, guys, it’s the first night--”

Dean said, “I thought your mum cut off ties with the British Wizarding World, Seamus, how’d she--”

“She’d weasel news out of anyone, got worried about Cedric--”

Harry went bright red. “Leave Cedric out of this--”

“Merlin, Harry! She’s my mum, she worries--”

“What, she think I’m gonna murder you in my sleep? That Voldie’s gonna burst from my head and start throwing Killing Curses?” Harry shouted.

“Leave my mother out of this!”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

Harry and Seamus had advanced to the center of the room, wands drawn but at their sides, hissing angry sparks. Ron leapt between them. “Guys, calm down, honestly. Seamus, you have a problem with Harry?”

“Yeah, I have a fucking problem with sharing the room with a fucking madman who can’t stop fucking bringing up a dead Dark Lord!”

Ron got very still. His ears went red. Dean and Neville were very still, Harry observed clinically. “That’s bang out of order, mate,” Ron said lowly, “considering that Dark Lord’s back.”

Seamus actually took a step back. “What, you believe--him?”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “I do.”

Harry sometimes forgot how perfect Ron could be sometimes. When he wasn’t wrestling with jealous, he was the master of the perfect snarky remark, the subject change, and occasionally the constant reinforcement of his friendship.

“Me too,” Neville said quietly. He drew closer to Harry. “My gran said this is how it started with the last war, a random death, a few random disappearances--and tension, suspense, and the Prophet printing lies all the time. We believe Dumbledore. We believe Harry.”

Seamus looked around at them incredulously.

Dean said, “Let’s go to bed.”

They went.

Professor Severus Snape woke at dawn, as the sun was creeping through the morning mist and into the One-Way Glass that lined his bedroom wall, half under the lake. He spent a good few minutes disentangling his dreams--sitting at the High Table between Charity Burbage and Narcissa Malfoy in nothing but his underwear, it seemed vaguely about sexual repression and fear of being unmasked--debated whether or not to settle in and have a good wank, if it really were about sexual repression, decided to treat himself since it was the first day of term, stretched, and went for a run around the lake, casting a reasonably powerful Notice-Me-Not charm before he left his quarters. Dumbledore was already out, swimming his laps. He raised a hand in greeting and began to run. Two miles into his run, bordering the Forbidden Forest, he noticed the new professor--spy--ninja--whatever emerging from the gloom. He hoped she wouldn’t talk to him. She jogged up to him with a grin. He ran faster. She caught up effortlessly, he noted sourly.

“Good morning!” she sang.

Severus grunted and accelerated. So did she.

“What should I do to get the Potter kid to like me?” she asked.

“Tell him he’s got his mother’s eyes and lie about his father,” Severus said irritably. “Try some subtlety. Leave me alone.”

“How do you deal with the Snakelord reading your mind?” she asked instead. “I keep thinking about his nostrils. Luckily he doesn’t understand Japanese.”

Severus tripped over a rock but caught himself. Mitarashi kept trucking along.

He wordlessly casted Muffliato. Mitarashi did not even blink, but kept running leisurely. “Have you studied Occlumency?”

“I can meditate, I guarded the Fire Temple well, I even have my own Snakelord lovebite that needs constant management. Why, have you?”

Severus supposed it had been a stupid question. He also supposed he did not want to have this conversation, but found himself too fascinated to stop. He kept running, but coughed out, “Snakelord lovebite?”

“My old teacher had an immortality fetish. His name even translates as “Snakeman’.”

“To my knowledge, the Dark Lord does not bite.” Even though, if memory served, Bellatrix Lestrange really wanted him to.

“Oh, really?”

“He prefers...other kinds of punishment.” Hopefully the intonation would shut her up.

“Mm.” Success. They ran on in silence. Severus occasionally ran with other professors--Septima was sometimes up this early, as was Bathsheba, and even Albus liked to switch up his cardio--and occasionally even chitchatted, as much as he was able. He had never casually discussed Occlumency and the Dark Lord’s biting habits on a run before, though occasionally he and Narcissa had deeply coded conversations about cold war and old friends over tea and Draco’s term reports. Mitarashi was on contract, she was magically-bound to protect Potter and preserve his own livelihood best she could, and she ran more easily than he could--the most in common he’d had with a person since the Dark Lord was brainwashing him onto his side. Truly it was the more Slytherin plan Albus had ever concocted, hiring her to act as an agent for Voldemort. He almost wanted to trade pointers with her. The only other Order spy was Lupin and he hardly counted.

“That brat would be feeling insecure and attacked,” Severus said suddenly. “He needs to feel reinforced and supported. He needs to learn how to articulate when he needs help. It would be counterproductive for an agent of the Dark Lord to do so, but he would confide in an adult, to trust in a...transgressive but still authoritative figure. So attractive to a teen.”

They were at the end of the fifth mile, where Severus normally Disillusioned himself to pad back to the dungeons through the side-latch in the boathouse, take a shower, and head to breakfast. He slowed to a stop and began to stretch.

“Thanks,”Mitarashi said, and sped up so fast she seemed a blur. Fucking ninja showoffs.

Double Potions with the fifth years today, glory glory. The afternoon would be productive. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs worked almost too well together, since Terry Boot, Susan Bones, Morag MacDougal, and Michael Goldstein were all in choir and on the chess team together, and their friends, being the rest of their year minus Potter’s little gang and Malfoy’s minions, liked to support them. Hufflepuffs moved in packs, and tended to suck everyone around them in. They would like his challenge for them today. Still, the morning would be hell--Potter’s gang would keep responding to Malfoy’s taunts, and none of his Slytherins ever wanted to take charge and diffuse the situation, too afraid of Narcissa’s vindictive streak and the Headmaster’s favoritism. Severus wished he could transfer the students actually willing to learn--Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Dean Thomas, Daphne Greengrass, Theodore Nott, Tracy Davis, and Blaise Zabini--to his Ravenpuff section.

He slid into his chair at the High Table and made his plate. Albus was already there, a few seats down, beard blow-dried.

“Good run?” Albus inquired.

“That woman is a menace,” Severus grunted, and began spreading jam over a croissant.

“I hope you’re not speaking about me,” Minerva injected, sitting between them.

“It’s too early in the morning to be that catty!” Septima called down from further down the table.

Minerva made herself a cup of tea and offered the kettle to Severus. Severus poured himself a cup and pointedly passed it back towards Albus, away from Septima.

“I think I’m funny,” Septima reminded them all. Wilhelmina settled in next to her, and reached across the DADA chair to offer Severus a cigarette. He shook his head: not before his meal. Wilhelmina nodded, and lit up. Minerva tsked disapprovingly.

Students began to trickle in--the pagan crew, trying to look bright-eyed after morning worship; some of the Quidditch fiends; and Millicent Bulstrode, Eloise Midgen, and Fay Dunbar, all dressed in exercise tunics and sweating. It seemed like they had formed an exercise group--good to see inter-House friendships thriving beyond the ever-warring Gryffindors and less cautious Slytherins. Bulstrode would get an earful from Parkinson for that, he would have to have a word in the common room about networking during House hours. Pomona smiled at him down the table. They always tried to encourage Slytherin-Hufflepuff matches.

“Mitarashi joined me on my run today,” he muttered to Minerva, relying on her cat-sharpened ears to catch what he said.

Minerva paused while salting her oatmeal. “Oh? You didn’t frighten her off?”

“She asked me if the Dark Lord gave lovebites.”

Minerva set down the saltshaker a little too hard on the table. Severus looked up and saw Mitarashi walking towards the table, and took a long drink from his tea. Minerva began to eat. They would talk about this later.

Mitarashi threw herself in the chair next to him, grinning. “So we have assigned seats, or is this--” she paused over the English, “a life-time habit?”

“A habit of a lifetime,” Minerva corrected. Severus glanced at her, and defensively she pursed her lips.

Mitarashi nodded. She grabbed a croissant covered in green powder, and tore it in half. Energetically she devoured an entire half in one bite and gustily chewed.

“Good?” Albus inquired. Minerva and Severus watched in fascination as she managed to get through the food without choking.

“Eh,” she shrugged, and kept on eating. Severus poured himself another cup of tea. “Oh!” Severus started, almost spilling the teapot. More professors were making their way to the High Table; Filius and Bathsheba were holding a stack of journals and speaking energetically. Be still, he told himself, and flexed his shields. Clear your mind. The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was rapidly becoming dark as rainclouds came in, stirring the air fresh with a hint of electric possibility, the tea smelled dark and strong, Wilhelmina’s cheroots reminded him of the occasional peaceful rainy Sunday with his father, curled around newspapers and Latin books, but he was disengaging, his personal mug was well-worn in his hands, the heat a welcoming contrast to the coming rain, and when he took a sip of it the Darjeeling exploded on his tongue.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Mitarashi said.

Severus took a bite from his croissant and drank his tea.

Nonplussed, she continued, “About British Defense curricula and fighting arts. I read your paper on fighting arts, ritual dance magic, and calling back the Dark Art--”

“Arts,” muttered Minerva.

“Dark Arts. In Japan that is already the norm, and I would like your advice in presenting it to a juvenile British classroom.”

Severus drank his tea. She was clearly attempting to construct a rapport with him. Had the Dark Lord ordered her to spy on him? Redundant, but they should figure out a way to corroborate reports--Severus hated surprises, but not more than the Dark Lord.

“Are you free later this evening?”

Albus and Minerva were obviously trying not to stare at him. Septima openly was, though she kept glancing back at Filius and Bathsheba’s excited babbling. Severus drank his tea to the dregs, refused to read the tea leaves, and set down the mug.

“Hem hem,” squealed a voice. Everyone’s attention turned. The Ministry toady was looking at the chair between Mitarashi and Wilhelmina. Oh thank Merlin. “Is this seat taken?”

Mitarashi airily waved a hand. “Yes, yes.” She grinned again. “How are you today, Madam Umbridge?”

Madam Umbridge smiled blandly as she slid like a dagger into its sheath between Mitarashi and Wilhelmina. “I am sorry, my dear,” she enunciated slowly. “Would--you--repeat--the--question?” Mitarashi smiled brightly. Severus had been of the opinion she spoke well, mildly accented but easily understandable English.

“Chan ba,” Mitarashi said apologetically. She coughed. “Please do pardon my English, it has been some years since I studied your noble language in a totally immersive environment. I must ask your patience for any mistake I make as I strive to gain fluency and comfort.” Severus glanced at the Headmaster. He seemed amused. Whatever had prefaced that little speech had likely been vulgar, then. An awkward silence fell upon their section of the table. Mitarashi had a cup of tea. Umbridge began to chat idly with Wilhelmina about the weather, who affected being hard-of-hearing and kept asking her to repeat herself. It was going to be a long year. Finally, Minerva rose.

“Schedules,” she said briskly, and the other Heads of Houses followed. Summoning the scrolls with a deft flick of his wrist, Severus headed towards the Slytherin table, and the rest of his day.

Ron was still complaining about how much homework they had by the time they reached the Defense classroom. “A foot on moonstones for Snape, a foot and a half for Binns, and that bloody dream diary--do our professors even talk? D’you think they do this on purpose? We’re not even done with the first day yet!”

“Fred and George said OWL year would be tough,” Harry reminded him testily. From Snape’s sniping to Hermione and Ron’s endless bickering to Trelawney’s straight-up bullshit, Harry was feeling his temper tried. The classroom door was open. They headed through, Ron’s voice dropping, “This Miter-ashy woman better not give us more work.”

“I will give you as much work as it takes to teach you what you should know,” a voice rang out. “Whether you choose to do it, that is your problem.”

Ron flushed as their classmates laughed. Harry companionably hit him on the shoulder and Hermione looked at him knowingly, signalling for them to sit by her. Professor Mitarashi was standing in front of her desk. She had the desks arranged in rows in front of her and the curtains drawn, though it did not do much good, with the rain lashing outside. A shelf of weapons and vials leaned against the wall behind her--knives and glittering glass--but in general the room was plain.

“Is this everyone?” She waited until everyone stopped glancing around and settled. Hermione opened her mouth to answer but Mitarashi continued, “Good. I am Professor Mitarashi and before we start lessons for the day, we will do introductions. I will show you, and you will copy: name, likes, dislikes, dream, and favorite phrase. Do not dawdle on the dream. As it has been mentioned to you many times, I am Professor Anko Mitarashi. I love dango--a sweet--and you will get bonus points on exams if you can find authentic-enough dango for me, but I don’t like spicy food much. My dream is to leave a better legacy than the man who taught me. Next!” She pointed at Lavender Brown, who started violently.

Harry only listened with half a year as his Gryffindor yearmates introduced themselves, tuning in when Neville softly said he just wanted to make his parents proud and feeling his stomach drop, wondering if his parents would ever be proud of him. He had failed to save Cedric, people wouldn’t stop whispering about him in the halls, but he had fought Voldemort to a stalemate and survived, hadn’t he? Ron said something that made everyone laugh, “...not just yet another Weasley, ya know?” and Harry realized it was his turn. The feel of everyone’s eyes on him was something he was used to, but he still hated it.

“Um,” he said. Everyone continued to stare at him. Mitarashi in particular looked at him like a mostly-full snake might eye a too-plump mouse in a sunny field. He swallowed. “Hi, uh, I’m Harry James Potter. I like Quidditch and my friends. I hate--I hate it when everyone’s just staring at me whispering the entire time, as if I’ve grown a unicorn horn on my head or something!” Half the classroom’s eyes flicked to his scar. Awkwardly he patted his hair down, and self-consciously people looked away. “My dream--honestly, professor, I just want to live out this year without death-threats.” No one laughed; he was hoping someone would. Seamus was staring at him. Harry glared at him until he looked away.

“People of your notoriety rarely do, Mr. Potter,” Mitarashi said slowly, enunciating the r-sound. “But a laudable goal. I would recommend moving to another continent if it wouldn’t make assasination attempts so much easier. Anyway!” Mitarashi clapped her hands and grinned. “Lesson time! Come to the center of the room!” Everyone cautiously stepped forward. Harry felt oddly naked, and Hermione and Ron flanked him for protection. Lavender and Parvati were trying to eye and whisper about him discretely, but Neville accidentally knocked into them. He had never really complained about the fame before, although he dearly wanted to explode about it to Snape most days; it only made Ron awkward and Hermione terribly understanding. Honestly, these days it sounded like she had swallowed one of Aunt Petunia’s sympathetic talk shows.

Mitarashi flicked her wand and the desks arranged themselves in a circle, radiating out from hers. Grand capitals appeared on the chalkboard behind them: “HOW DO YOU DEFINE A DARK ART?” He caught Ron’s eye, mutually confused.

“Discussion time!” the professor grinned. “Sit down, notebooks out, let’s talk.”

Ron exchanged a glance with Harry. Hermione seemed baffled and nervous. The Gryffindor fifth formers settled in, and Mitarashi sat down on her desk and clapped her hands. “Come on, let’s start.” She looked at Lavender Brown. “Brown, put down that magazine and show me a woman can think. How do you define a dark art?”

Lavender guiltily put down her magazine. “Um, sorry professor, uh--it’s evil, isn’t it? The Dark Arts are evil, so whatever a dark art is, it’s evil.” Nods went around the circle. Dean Thomas looked a little skeptical.

“Thomas!” Mitarashi called out suddenly. “Your face. You disagree?”

Everyone stared at Dean, as if he believed that evil were permissible. “No! I mean, not really, professor. I can explain! It just seems that saying you know what a thing is because it’s evil, it doesn’t feel like a solid definition to me, professor. You get people in this school thinking people like me are evil just because I’m a Muggleborn,” Hermione drew herself up proudly and stiffly, and Harry thought about the terror of the basilisk, Malfoy’s taunts, “because I don’t know their traditions and don’t want to copy them. And I think that’s evil. But I don’t think that’s an act of Dark Magic.”

“But wouldn’t you say that the people who are saying--saying those slurs,” Hermione asked, “are Dark themselves?”

“I get some of the most annoying passive-aggression from well-meaning Hufflepuffs trying to help me fit in, not to mention the usual casual racism,” Dean answered levelly. “What about from you?” Harry awkwardly remembered that Dean was black, that Hermione was biracial, and both of them muggleborns. He knew how muggles acted, how nasty his aunt and uncle got about black people and especially Muslimbs, and couldn’t imagine dealing with the pureblooded shit on top of that. He shifted in his seat. He didn’t like thinking about this. He glanced at Ron. Ron looked uncomfortable too.

“More active aggression, thank you,” Hermione said tartly. “I don’t want to assume about how it’s been for you here, and let’s leave aside our status in the muggle world for a second. But I was petrified by a basilisk in the control of the Heir of Slytherin, and Mal--and certain people in this school were crowing for our death. Specifically mine. Again, I don’t know your experience. But I say they’re Dark and to be treated accordingly.”

Mitarashi leaned forward, eyes sparkling “Are they Dark if they’re actively evil, then?”

Dean threw his hands up in frustration. “But how do you define evil?”

“Murderers,” Harry said, “torturers, cowards who throw innocent people into hell just so they can feel complacent. Voldemort--” everyone but the professor gasped, Neville nearly fell out of his chair, “and his Death Eaters are Dark.”

“But what makes their magic dark?” Mitarashi pressed.

“It hurts people,” Neville said lowly. Everyone stared at him. “Even for the practitioner, it hurts them. It’s magic you can’t control.”

Mitarashi jumped off her desk and strode to the blackboard, and handwrote EVIL, HURTFUL, UNCONTROLLABLE. She underlined the last word twice. She turned to the circle. “But children cannot control their magic. A child is menaced by a person holding a knife. The person lifts the knife to slash, or begins to try to stab--and the child cries out, their magic pushes the knife out of the person’s hand and into their chest. Is that dark?”

“It’s about intent to harm,” Harry realized wearily. “Even the Lumos charm can blind someone. You can brain a troll with Wingardium Leviosa.” Ron and Hermione shared a look; no one felt like smiling.

“But that can’t be right!” ejaculated Ron loudly. “We know there are Dark spells! They’re in the Restricted Section--”

“Which we can request passes for,” Hermione said with dawning horror, “but only if the professor thinks we’re sound enough for it.”

“Mens sana in corpore sano, Granger?” Professor Mitarashi asked. “Yes, Potter, you got it. I argue it is about intent.”

“What about the Unforgivables, then?” Ron asked defiantly. He wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing.

“Yeah!” Seamus nodded. “You can’t tell me you can use the Cruciatus for anything good!”

Parvati bit her lip. Mitarashi nodded at her. “There’s a tradition of Indian magic that we call fakirism,” she said hesitantly. “It’s religious, though--about braving pain to achieve the ecstasy of unthinkingness, of Nirvana--to conquer being human. Practitioners will sometimes torture each other almost to unconsciousness--but it’s not really done anymore, and I think there was something like that in the West as well, Opus Dei or something like that?” Sometimes Harry forgot her twin was a Ravenclaw; it must have rubbed off on her. He glanced around the circle. Neville was pale and sweaty, Dean looked frustrated but intrigued, Seamus annoyed, Ron baffled and irritated, and Hermione outraged.

“That’s barbaric!” she exclaimed.

Parvati snapped, “Watch what you’re calling barbaric, child-of-tooth-torturers. We have magic for that; you rip teeth out.”

Hermione swelled with anger, but the professor headed off the storm. “As edifying as this discussion of cultural relativism must be for you, this leads very nicely into my next point. I have read much of your country’s literature on the Dark Arts and I cannot say I have reached a consensus. What you call Dark we sometimes call old; our forbidden techniques, kenjutsu, are forbidden to those weak enough to attempt them without proper training. It is the crime that is committed in working the technique that we call evil--and the technique, forbidden. We have a technique that allows a willing sacrifice to seal away an enemy, sacrificing both their souls to Death. There is another technique allows the caster to commit murder-suicide. For the former, two successive military leaders of my country used it to bring down--the nearest equivalent would be a Dark Lord. The latter has been used by young men and women in desperate circumstances--and also for so-called crimes of passion. Would you label a woman killing herself and her attacker to save her child Dark?”

Harry shifted uneasily. He would never, ever call Lily Potter Dark, or anything spell she cast, and he would instinctively hex anyone who suggested that blind--but wouldn’t that be cruel? Would casting the Conjunctivitis Curse, which was easily healed by magic, on Aunt Petunia, for calling her sister a slut, make it Dark? Suddenly the memory of Aunt Marge bobbing along the ceiling of Number 4, Privet Drive seemed less funny.

“I’d like a foot on what you think the Dark Arts are, based on your reactions to this conversation,” Professor Mitarashi continued. “And Granger, Patil, please see me.”

Hermione and Parvati moved to the front, not looking at each other. Hermione seemed embarrassed; she had a habit of getting defensive before admitting it, though. Harry looked at Ron, who shrugged. They would catch up with her at dinner. For now, he could drop by Gryffindor Tower and leave his stuff, and wind through the castle until it was time for dinner.

 


	3. The Sorting Hat's Song

Harry Potter and the Cursed Mark: A Book Five Crossover

Chapter 3: The Sorting Hat’s Song, pg. 17-22, 3100 words

Hermione, though, was not at dinner when Harry trundled in, ignoring the stares and whispers and grabbing a seat next to Ron. It seemed to set off some sort of signal at the Hufflepuff table. Ernie Macmillan, trailed by a cringing Hannah Abbott and amused Susan Bones, walked up to the Gryffindor table and planted his hand on Harry’s shoulder, or would have, if Harry hadn’t flinched away instinctively and risen. He looked at him incredulously.

“Harry,” Ernie announced pompously, “I would like you to know that I believe you--that You-Know-Who returned, and that he murdered Cedric. The fifth-year Hufflepuffs stand behind you! And anybody who wants to bother you can come to me,” he puffed out his chest, “first.”

Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables fell silent. Ravenclaw and Slytherin, too far to hear what was going on, kept up the usual chatter.

“Did we vote on this?” Zacharias Smith’s voice was heard saying. “Because I don’t think I voted on 

this.”

Harry gaped at Ernie.

“Right then,” Ernie said heartily. “We’d like to meet with you though, let’s say seven o’clock in the Window Room of the library? See you then.” He swaggered away.

“I am so sorry,” Hannah said. “Ernie--he was supposed to give you some warning beforehand! I am so, so sorry.” She skittered after Ernie.

Harry gaped after her.

“Remember, Potter, Window Room at seven,” Susan said, and strode on after her housemates.

Ron looked at Harry and chuckled. “Guess more people believe you than you think.” He slapped Harry on the back. “Maybe you’ll stop griping for awhile. Now eat, you’re always way too thin after the summer.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said sourly. He turned to his mashed potatoes.

“So people really think he’s back,” Seamus said heavily. Harry looked up sharply.

“No fucking shit, Seamus,” Ron said easily. “Eat your peas.” He began shovelling peas into his mouth, presumably to show Seamus how. Dean thumped Seamus’ shoulder.

“Give it a rest, mate, not at dinner,” he muttered, and while Seamus scowled he remained silent, and did, indeed, eat his peas. Dinner dragged on in silence. Seamus kept glancing up to stare at Harry and scowl, Dean kept nervously looking from Seamus to Ron and barely dared even look in Harry’s direction, and Ron kept placidly eating. None of the fifth year boys bothered to try to lighten up the atmosphere; Neville was sitting with a couple Ravenclaws at the Hufflepuff table, talking very enthusiastically about Herbology. There was nobody to take the fall. The girls had shut them out; Harry noticed with a start that Hermione and Parvati weren’t among them.

“Hey, where’s Hermione?” he asked Ron.

Ron chewed thoughtfully, and then said thickly, “Think she’s still making up with Parvati and talking about multi-culturalism in the British Wizarding World. They were still talking about religion and Indian Wizardry when I left.”

Harry looked at him, surprised.

“What?” Ron swallowed. “I listen! Sometimes. You’re the one who zones out all the time, mate. Drives Hermione mad.”

Harry flushed. He did listen to his friends, but sometimes Hermione got intense, especially when she was arguing with Ron, and half the time they never said anything useful but nitpicking anyway. They argued constantly about books Hermione was reading, about Ron’s language and how he treated women, about sports and the different kinds of learning--sometimes Harry halfheartedly tried to insert a “hmm” and a “really” but most of the time they were wrapt up in their own little world.

He opened his mouth to point out how they had shut him out completely over the summer, but Ron, hastily seeing where this was going, loudly attempted to swallow the last bite of food, choked, hacked it into his napkin, grimaced, and stood up.

“Don’t you have to go meet some Hufflepuffs?” he said.

“That was just nasty, mate,” Dean said, horrified, and for the first time this term Seamus and Harry were in complete agreement.

 

“You have my Slytherins in uproar, Professor Mitarashi,” Severus said. He signalled Rosmerta.

“I have the entirety of the fifth year of Hogwarts in uproar, Professor Snape,” Mitarashi grinned. She leaned back in her chair as Rosmerta swaggered to their table, curves moving in step. She stuck out her chest, as was her wont with him, as she asked them what they would like. It was sort of a running gag. Severus really had little interest in her. His romantic prospects were already complicated enough, and Rosmerta even knew some of it, she had watched most of them implode, sometimes in this very restaurant. He resolutely did not think about Charity.

“We’ve had the usual Great Hall feast, Rosmerta,” he waved away the menus, “but I would not mind a half-liter of your 1881 elf-made wine.”

“Do you have a dessert menu?” Mitarashi asked. “Have you heard of dango?”

“What?”They brushed her off and Severus wordlessly casted his eavesdropping spell. Mitarashi sighed and leaned the front legs of her chair off the ground. Severus resisted the urge to snap at her to sit up  _ straight _ , Miss Student, a point from Huffledor for lack of decorum, school  _ has _ begun, and straighten your tie, Weasley, else you’ll be mistaken for a bum, and we can’t have that be another feather in Glorious Gryffindor’s cap, can we? A point from Gryffindor.

Rosmerta brought the wine and Severus poured them both glasses. Mitarashi complained, “Does the British Wizarding World have ethnic enclaves? I have not had proper Japanese food in a full month.”

“Try Diurn Alley,” Severus advised. “The entrance is next to Fortescue’s ice cream parlor in Diagon Alley. There is a more diverse shopping district there, and the Chinese apothecary is better than Mulpepper and Noltie’s.” His face changed. “You haven’t asked me here to discuss the pawky offerings of British cuisine. The Hufflepuffs’ display of... _ solidarity _ did not go unnoticed, and I have had some of my older Slytherins and NEWT-level Potions students come to to my afternoon office hours, to arrange a longer discussion of career options abroad. What are you doing?”

Mitarashi let her chair down with a thump. She was smirking. “I do what I am paid to do, Professor. Your Headmaster wants me to teach Hogwarts students how to defend against the dark arts while lulling your Dark Lord into an ambush, by befriending and drawing out Harry Potter--as your Lord directs. Both of your masters want me to act as your back-up. So I am teaching students how to defend themselves, I am laying the groundwork of befriending Harry Potter, and I am checking in with you.” She leaned back again. “Satisfactory?”

Severus sipped his wine and considered the situation. He was supposed to play nice with some ninja spy, encourage his students to get the hell out of the incoming civil war while recruiting them to opposite sides, to the satisfaction of both the Dark Lord and Albus, and keep sabotaging any attempt the Potter brat made at maturity and intelligence while pressuring Albus to actually make him shape up to the war that was unfolding around them. “No, it’s not.”

Mitarashi actually laughed and mock-toasted him. Severus was beginning to grow angry. Coldly, he said, “How will you devise properly training these students without incurring the Dark Lord’s suspicions? My Slytherins are guessing my  _ side _ , Mitarashi, and the war hasn’t been properly declared yet. How--”

“Listen.” Mitarashi set down her glass. The air grew cold, and her face darkened. Inwardly, Severus scoffed as the firelight of Rosmerta’s pub flickered dramatically across her face: fucking melodramatic ninjas, didn’t she know he knew that trick? “Have you ever heard of Lord Orochimaru, of the Legendary Ninja of the Village Hidden in the Leaves.”

“Yes.” He had met him, in fact, years ago, at a dinner party the Malfoys had thrown. He had not liked him, but then he rarely liked anyone. Orochimaru had reminded him far too much of the Dark Lord, and his scientific interests seemed to much like Rookwood and Dr. Tucker’s bullshit human experimentation. Severus had never thought much of torture.

“He was my master.” She tapped her shoulder. “He used me in his experiments, passively encouraged by our own leader. I was interested at first, but there comes a line--and I fought the isolation, turned spy for some time, and helped chase him out and hunt him down. He was very interested in immortality, you know--left fragments of himself everywhere.”

Severus realized he was rubbing his dark mark. He clutched his forearm, but his voice came out steady. “I see you have some experience in this handling this matter.”

“I know what draws kids to dark magic. I know how to draw them back.” The atmosphere was warming, and the shadows receding. “And I can act where you cannot, if you can tell me where to act.” She smiled cheekily. “Maybe even improve your reputation while I’m at it. I’ve seen you at duelling tournaments, you know. I’ve even met you. Years ago. I was just a kid then. You even gave me a speech about avoiding the dark arts and all that.”

Severus stared at her. “When--what are you suggesting?”

“I think it would help the students to see what real dueling looks like--like your match against Hywl Pendragon and Filius Flitwick in Geneva, in ‘87. Or the melee trial in Shanghai, ‘78. That’s when I saw you, by the way. I competed,” she finished a little self-consciously. Severus vaguely remembered the Konoha delegation; he had been too preoccupied with the feeling of savage victory, freedom from the castle, and speaking to people his own age and with his own interests and obsessions to make note of any of their trainees. He had sworn to himself not to acknowledge the existence of anyone under the age of eighteen, that tournament. He had struck up a brief friendship and correspondence with a redheaded rune mistress, though, but the letters had stopped arriving years and years ago. He wondered what happened to her, and made a note to reread her letters.

Lucius’ injunction that he train Draco properly came back to mine. With Lucius’ support, he had the Ministry’s support. “Perhaps we should consult Madam Umbridge on what the Ministry would like to see from OWL- and NEWT- level students, especially if Hogwarts could send a team out? A dueling club, supervised appropriately, should not be too much a drain on my time.”

They spent the rest of the evening planning how to tackle Albus, Umbridge, and the students. They agreed to rehearse a match over the weekend in the Forbidden Forest, and see if they could put one on properly once Umbridge had been firmly put into place. The Dark Lord would be pleased to see such an easy way of mapping Potter’s progress. Albus would be pleased that it would be so easy for Mitarashi to take him under her wing and train him privately. Severus lingered in the Three Broomsticks after she left, cancelling the silencing spell. Rosmerta came by.

“You two seemed to get along,” she said, setting down a bottle of water.

“Hardly. She follows the International Dueling Network, that’s all. And I’m at least ten years older than her.” He remembered, briefly, the last woman he dated, who had also followed the International Dueling Network--and the disaster long distance had wrecked on his finances and house management skills. His face grew grimmer.

“And she’s one person in this country you haven’t taught Potions,” Rosmerta was saying.

Severus shook himself away from thoughts of Riza Elric and made a face. “We’re getting old.”

“Speak for yourself.” She sauntered away. Severus relished in the warm of the fire and the taste of his wine, thought with pleasant melancholy of how he was, indeed, approaching middle age--and remembered that Lily would never, that James Potter and Marlene McKinnon and Evan Rosier and Regulus Black would never, and soured. He went back to the castle and took out his guilt on any student he managed to catch prowling the halls, went to bed too late into the night, and did not have any nightmares, though he dearly wished he had.

 

Luckily for Harry, his meeting with the Hufflepuffs would end before Snape made his rounds, although he would leave it in a similar form of agitation. At 7 he ducked into the library, waving goodbye to Ron. Ron claimed to know the layout of the library better than any student besides Hermione and the Library Expedition Crew, since he was always fishing Hermione out to go on a walk around the grounds and actually get some fresh air sometimes, while Harry was at Quidditch practice. He explained that the Window Room was five flagstones from aisle eleven, row kappa, and that you had to knock on the window for the door to unlock. Hermione’s Ancient Runes study group met there on Wednesdays. Harry wandered through the shelves, hoping the Greek alphabet followed the same pattern as the English--and it sort of did, he found kappa where he hoped it would be, walked to the window, and knocked.

“For fuck’s sake, Ernie, don’t you think that’s a bit overkill?” said Zacharias Smith’s exasperated voice.

“Did you hear that?” said Hannah Abbot’s.

“Harry, just come in!” Susan Bone’s voice called. Harry looked at the window and shrugged, smiling slightly. He loved magic. He stepped through the window, and suddenly realized why Zach was annoyed. The fifth year Hufflepuffs had pushed all the desks in the study room into a circle around the door, with Justin Finch-Fletchy standing in the center looking worried. Ernie had his wand out and was playing with the lighting.

“I just want to make sure the mood is comforting--oh hullo Harry, good to see you,” Ernie said heartily. “Sit down, sit down.”

“Um,” said Harry. Hannah Abbot smiled at him tremulously, and waved him over. He sat next to her. He had never really talked to her. It was hard to make friends out of Gryffindor, with Quidditch and all, and the Hufflepuffs had ignored him  _ en masse _ second year and last year, with Cedric--but that didn’t bear thinking about. He found himself get angry. They  _ never _ gave him any time, they were the worst about rumors, and Justin didn’t even bother to apologize for telling everyone he was the heir of Slytherin!

“What do you want?” he said testily. He caught Susan and Justin exchanging a glance, and Susan elbowing him. Justin stepped forward.

He ran his hand through his hair. “Well, Harry, we just want to talk. And first of all, I want-- _ we _ want,” Zach Smith snorted, but Justin pressed, “to apologize.”

“What,” Harry said. That had never happened before. “What--for what? For telling everyone I was the heir of Slytherin and out to kill muggleborns when my own mother was a muggleborn? When my parents were killed by Voldemort? When you all wore those shitty buttons Malfoy made, even when I didn’t want to complete and Cedric and I were  _ friends _ ?” He was shouting by the end of it and breathing hard.

“I told you this wouldn’t work out,” Hannah said despondently.

“Let him talk,” Susan said sharply.

Justin cringed. Ernie sat down next to him. The Hufflepuffs all pressed closer.

“You’re right to be upset with us,” Justin said. “We did you a disservice. We took the values of our House and went to an extreme. We were trying to be loyal but forgot the inclusivity part. So, on behalf of the Hufflepuff fifth years, I want to say sorry.”

Ernie cleared his throat. “We have a tendency to clannishness, even worse than the other houses...everyone thinks we’re just a load of duffers, so it’s easier to band together and shut out any threat than prove them wrong. Especially with Cedric. I’m personally sorry that I wore that button, Harry.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry said, anger rapidly depleting, “it was shitty. Yeah.” To his horror, he found himself on the brink of tears. What would Rita Skeeter say?

“It’s Cedric we want to talk about,” Susan said abruptly. “It would be easier to make up for the rumors if we knew what happened to Cedric.”

Harry turned to stone. “I…” he rasped, and blinked rapidly. “I really don’t want to talk about Cedric.”

Hannah said, almost gently, “We miss him too. It must have been horrible, seeing him die.”

To his horror, tears were seeping from the corners of his eyes. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“Have you talked to anyone about it?” Susan inquired. “Was there a proper inquiry?”

Harry mutely shook his head.

“Well.” Susan sat back on her heels. “The Ministry  _ has _ been irregular. There was no mention of Cedric at your hearing?”

Harry’s head shot up. “How do you know about that?” he demanded.

Susan smiled slightly. “My auntie’s Amelia Bones. I live with her.”

“Nobody wants to talk about Voldemort,” Harry spat. “Fucking Fudge screamed in Dumbledore’s face, even when--” he realized he probably shouldn’t blow Snape’s cover, “even when I told him about Cedric. Voldemort killed him. He told his assistant, he told him  _ kill the spare _ , he just did it as if it were nothing and Fudge isn’t doing a damn thing about it!”

The Hufflepuffs were silent.

“Well,” Ernie said heartily, “we can’t stand for that.” Harry looked up. There was steel in his eyes, and it was reflected in all their faces.

“Ernie,” Zach said, “this is all nice and good feelings and all, clearing it up, but what the hell can we do?”

“Let’s tell the House,” Susan said. “Let’s tell the House the Ministry refuses to consider eyewitness testimony and has failed to conduct a proper investigation. We tell them to tell their parents. I’ll write my auntie. We use our rumor mill and our solidarity for good, for once.” She smiled thinly. “For Cedric.”

Ernie clapped a hand on Harry’s back. He started slightly. Harry nodded back. “For Cedric.”

The Hufflepuffs were a decent bunch. Morag MacDougal showed up late, stuck in choir practice--she was lead soprano, she said. Harry felt a little baffled by their support and their honesty, but he understood guilt and regret well enough, especially when Morag asked if they thought they could use this to prove Professor Mitarashi wrong. Apparently she had spent their class discussion had gone in the direction of shunning and solidarity, loyalty gone wrong and where good intentions go Dark. They had talked about Cedric.

“It only seems right to offer you the same space,” Hannah said. “We had Grief Counseling and all that. McGonagall’s pretty hands-off with you guys, isn’t she?” The idea that the other houses were run differently had never struck Harry. He pondered it as he walked back to Gryffindor Tower, and as he entered the common room a realization struck him. He didn’t know if Cho Chang had anyone to talk to.


	4. Cold War

The week dragged on. The professors seemed determined to drive them to death via homework, and Hermione was so wound up she got into a shouting match with Ron over Quidditch--namely, its place of importance in the Wizarding World, and whether intelligence should take its place. It ended with Ron telling her she just didn’t understand the Wizarding World and Hermione bursting into tears and running out of the common room.

“Well done, Weasley,” Angelina Johnson said exasperatedly. “Maybe she doesn’t get it because she didn’t grow up in the Wizarding World, and prioritizes different things anyway.”

Ron stood there woodenly. “Should I go after her?”

Harry got out of the squashy armchair he had curled up in, having thought he could actually get his Potions homework done early. “I’ll talk to her.” He cast a quick drying spell on the parchment and grabbed his books and essay.

“Quidditch practice tomorrow, Harry,” Angelina reminded him sharply. “It’s too close to curfew. I want you at the tryouts.”

Harry gestured at the open portrait hole. “I know, but…”

Angelina shot Ron a nasty look. “Fine, be a good friend. Don’t want another troll to attack her, I guess.”

Ron sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. “Why does it always go wrong?”

“Because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon, that’s why,” Harry said bracingly. “I’ll go talk to her.” Harry trooped out of the Gryffindor common room to general laughter. Their bickering was legendary in Gryffindor Tower, most of the time affectionate, but sometimes one of them would cross a line. They had eased up after Harry had snapped at them, so he really only had himself to blame for the explosion of tension. Harry just wished they would snog it out--but what if they broke up? He sighed. Well, if they got over Crookshanks, they could get over anything. Harry was momentarily panicked by the thought of his two best friends never speaking to each other, using him to communicate for the rest of Hogwarts, after which they drifted apart, leaving him torn between two worlds. No, Ron and Hermione should never date, at least to keep him safe. He could never approve. It would destroy their friendship. They just weren’t mature enough for it, no matter how adult Hermione thought herself.

Speaking of Hermione, Harry found her crying softly in a disused classroom on the fourth floor, facing the Forbidden Forest, and framing the view of dancing stained glass unicorns. Hermione was leaning against the window, and the unicorns were snuffling at her hair. One seemed determined to break the fourth wall and chew on her head. Harry sat down next to her and gingerly patted her on the back. They sat in silence, as Hermione’s tears receded into sniffling. Finally she attempted a smile at him and they went to library, where Hermione worked through her emotions by coaching him through his Potions essay. They complained about quills and talked a little bit about music as they went, and Hermione went off on a tangent about moonstones and C.S. Lewis and something her mother had said to her growing up, and she promised to lend the novels to Harry when they went back up. It was calming. When they finished the essay, it was nearly curfew. Hermione panicked; she had to put back their references

“Don’t worry,” Harry said quickly, not wanting to see an evening’s work ruined. “I can do it. I have the map. You go ahead, I’ll stay out of trouble.”

Hermione sniffed. “You always say that, and you never do.”

“It’s not like I do it on purpose. Trouble’s like, I dunno, attracted to me. Maybe it’s a curse.” At that, Hermione’s eyes roved to his forehead. Harry flattened down his hair.

“Maybe…” Hermione said slowly. “Bad luck…” The clock chimed a quarter before curfew and Hermione jumped. “Sorry, Harry! I’ll see you tomorrow, I’ll leave the books on your bed.”

“Bye, Hermione.” Harry began gathering the books. He bet he would find Ron and Hermione sitting on his bed, talking urgently and apologetically, when he got back, and she would have forgotten all about the books. Madam Pince eyed him angrily as he flitted about the Potions shelves, cramming books back where they belonged. As he passed her desk, two minutes before curfew,  he swore he heard her hiss. He sped his walk to nearly a run. Filch would probably patrol around Ravenclaw Tower, which was in the opposite direction, for the first half hour after curfew, and then switch to the area around the kitchens. He might be able to make it without any trouble--portraits were encouraging him to run faster, so he broke straight into a run, passing a couple of frantic-looking seventh year Hufflepuffs. He saw a shadow creep around a corner, cursed, and hid in a camouflaging doorway as Professors Vector, Sinistra, and Snape swept by.

“--Vance’s proposition won’t even make it past the First Moot, let along the Wizengamot,” Vector said heatedly. “Malfoy’s got them all in his pocket.”

“I think you underestimate Lucius’s political sense,” Sinistra disagreed. “What with the auror searches a few years ago, he’d want to argue his own case publically, and win it too--shows more confidence, he’s got nothing to hide…”

Snape turned his head and Harry swore he could see through the camouflage and stare right into his eyes, but kept going, drawing closer to Sinistra. He waited until he could no longer hear their footsteps, and pulled out the map.

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” he whispered.

“Is that so, Mr. Potter?” a saccharinely sweet voice purred. Harry blanched. It was the cardigan.

 

Dolores Umbridge was not a pretty woman, but she kept all the trappings of cloying sweetness anyway. Harry swore she smelled like gingerbread, as she marched him to McGonagall’s personal quarters. Dread dragged his feet on the heavy flagstones. McGonagall was strictly hands-off when it came to what happened in Gryffindor House, as long as they left her alone too. She would be furious to be disturbed in her private time. She had office hours, but not even Hermione had been to them--and Hermione had even been to Snape’s. Maybe she would go a little easy on him, since they were all in the Order together. At least she wouldn’t ban him from Quidditch.

Umbridge knocked briskly on McGonagall’s door. There was no response. Umbridge knocked again, a little louder this time. There was light under the door, but no shadows of movement. Umbridge coughed a little and knocked again, Harry tried not to laugh, but then the door swung open and McGonagall’s grim face greeted them. She stared down at them. Harry gulped.

“Mr. Potter, Miss Umbridge,” Professor McGonagall ground out. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“High Inquisitor Umbridge,” the cardigan smiled. “I found Mr. Potter out of bed and wanted to ensure he was punished by the proper authority.”

McGonagall looked at Umbridge for one long moment, then glanced at Harry. Harry hurriedly put a penitent look on his face. He hoped his mother’s eyes would be good for something. McGonagall did not soften.

“Thank you, Madam Umbridge,” McGonagall said. “I’ll deal with Potter presently.”

No one moved. Harry nearly laughed.

“Inside, Potter,” McGonagall clipped, and shut the door before Umbridge could invite herself in.

Harry found himself in a spacious sitting room outfitted with warm mahogany and several bookshelves. There were a couple couches clustered around a coffee table and a cheerful fireplace, whose mantle held a collection of photographs. The couches, of course, were upholstered in McGonagall’s clan tartan. A gramophone was playing something that sounded as if it belonged in a music hall. A tumbler of scotch sat on the coffee table.

“Sit, Potter,” McGonagall directed. Harry sat. She clapped her hands. “Gilly! Tea!”

A lovely silver tea tray appeared. Harry started. McGonagall poured him a cup and handed it to him, without asking him about milk or sugar, and poured some tea into her glass. She regarded him. Harry felt a little like a goldfish in a bowl, with nowhere to swim away.

“Well, Potter?” McGonagall said irritably.

“What? Oh, uh, I-I was in the library working with Hermione and had to put back the books and--”

“Have a biscuit, Potter,” McGonagall sighed.

Harry took a biscuit.

McGonagall rubbed her temples. “You do realize, Harry, that we are at war?”

Harry tried to respond through a mouthful of crumbs and gave it up as a bad job.

“That Madam Umbridge is a Ministry spy, and the Ministry is undermining us at every turn?”

Harry cleared his throat. “I know--Hermione said--the Ministry’s interfering at Hogwarts,” he finished lamely.

“I see why Severus says you are insufferable,” McGonagall glowered. “Thank you for listening to Miss Granger, at least.  _ Do you understand what that means _ ?”

Harry wondered if he could bullshit himself out of this somehow, but there was no Hermione to mouth answers and no Ron to gauge the mood of the room. “No, Professor, I don’t,” he said sharply. “No one’s told me anything. Professor Dumbledore--”

“Professor Dumbledore might tell you something if he thought you were more reliable, Harry!” McGonagall gestured at him. “If you weren’t out late at night! If you weren’t isolating your classmates in your dorm and disrespecting your professors in class!  _ Tread carefully _ , Mr. Potter, how often do we have to tell you your life is in danger and we want you alive?”

Harry went very still. Nobody had ever told him they wanted him alive.

McGonagall softened slightly. “Professor Dumbledore is an extremely busy man. You must understand, there are greater political forces out there and he must answer to them first. Professor Snape and I are your Order allies, Mr. Potter, but we must answer to school administration first. Lucius Malfoy may no longer be on the Board of Governors, but his allies are. You cannot afford to get in trouble. Our ability to mitigate punishment may be revoked. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, flushed. He stared into his teacup but couldn’t see anything but too-bitter tea. He had forgotten about Malfoy and the Board of Governors, but now he distantly remembered Arthur Weasley complaining about him threatening everyone on the Board, and if they had enough power to send professors to Azkaban, what could they do to him? He thought about Ginny. Nobody had ever been punished for hurting her.

“Detention, Mr. Potter, for all of Saturday.”

Harry looked up. “But--Professor--Quidditch tryouts--”

McGonagall eyed him inscrutably. “It’s only fair, Potter. Now get out of my house.”

 

The weekend passed. Harry wrote lines, ignored Seamus, bickered with Ron and Hermione, and tried to get his homework done. Angelina was annoyed with him, but at least Ron was on the team now. The professors kept piling work. Mitarashi wasn’t letting anyone touch their wands, saying she wanted them thinking before they fired off a spell. He was getting restless, and annoying the Gryffindors because of it, especially when, struck by impatience, he skinned yarrow roots too roughly, which then caused his potion to blow up when he added the armadillo bile. Snape had assigned him an essay on yarrow reactants and emulsifiers--whatever that meant--and another zero for the day. McGonagall may have said he was one of Harry’s allies, but he certainly wasn’t acting like it.

“I did think he would get better, with the Order and all,” Hermione muttered as they trooped glumly towards the Great Hall. “He’s on our side…”

“Yeah, well, he’s a spy, isn’t he?” Ron pointed out. “For our side. He wouldn’t want to seem to buddy-buddy with us, wouldn’t he? Especially not with Harry. What would You-Know-Who think!”

Harry laughed. “Imagine Snape trying to act ‘buddy-buddy’ with anyone! Ugh, has anyone ever seen him smile?”

“You know, Ron’s got a point,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “You’d think You-Know-Who would want him trying to get Harry to like him, make it easier to trust him, get more information.”

Harry frowned. He was trying to imagine a likeable Snape. His brain just couldn’t do it. He opened his mouth to ask Hermione what she thought that would look like, but Cho Chang came walking up to him and he tripped instead. Ron hid his snicker with a cough. Hermione patted him on the back a little hard.

“Hi, Harry,” Cho said. She was trying to smile. “Zach told me what you told the Hufflepuffs. I-I’d appreciate it if you could--if we could talk about it sometime.” She took a deep breath. “It would be easier--I didn’t know the Hufflepuffs had counselling, did you?”  
“Uh,” Harry said. Hermione elbowed him, and grabbed Ron and walked hurriedly off. “Mm--no. Uh. Yeah. When?” It came out a little high.

“Do you want to meet after dinner, in the East Wing’s music room? It’s on the other side of Ravenclaw Tower.”

“Sure. Yeah. Uh.” Harry took a bracing breath, and rushed out, “I’m sorry I didn’t reach out to you earlier--”

Cho did smile at him this time, gently and mostly sad. “It’s fine. We didn’t really have a chance--” The warning wind rustled the windchimes decorating the courtyard, and awkwardly they smiled at each other and waved the other off. Harry hurried to where Ron and Hermione were waiting. He didn’t know whether Cho had been referring to him, or Cedric.

They walked in silence towards the Defense classroom. Eventually, it got too much for Ron, who said, “She was wearing a Tutshill Tornados badge. You don’t think she jumped on the bandwagon and--”

“Ron,” Harry said. “Shut up.” They entered the room in silence. To Harry’s surprise, a pensieve was sitting on a plinth in the center of the room, though the desks were arranged in a circle as usual. Dean, Parvati, and Fay Dunbar were standing around Professor Mitarashi’s desk; it sounded like she was telling a story.

“And he screams, ‘Don’t underestimate me! I don’t quit and I don’t run! I don’t care if I get stuck a cadet my whole life--I’m still going to end up general someday!’ So of course everyone stayed in the room, and I got stuck trying to break their spirits.” Mitarashi was leaning back in her chair, legs on the table, arms over her head. She was grinning. Harry wordlessly took his usual seat, but Ron walked over to the group. Hermione stayed.

“I wonder what that is,” Hermione said, eying the pensieve’s mystical carvings. “I think that’s Hebrew…”

The rest of the class shuffled in, Seamus looking disgruntled. He had accidentally set fire to Blaise Zabini’s robes after Harry had blown up his potion, which had sent Snape into a tirade about Fire-Proofing spells and “not having to live up to national stereotypes, Finnegan!” They tried not to look at each other.

Mitarashi straightened up. “Ah, I take it by some of your faces Potions went especially well today. How many of you ignored basic lab procedure and left Professor Snape scrapping distilled student off the ceiling?” A couple students giggled.

“Just the usual disasters, Professor,” Lavender Brown joked. She was actually pretty good with Potions, and annoyed Snape less than Hermione did with her answers. Parvati and Fay looked at Harry and smiled; Dean elbowed Seamus jokingly.

“I suppose we can’t expect him to join us today, then,” Mitarashi tutted. Harry sat up ramrod straight. The greasy git in Defense, had he finally convinced Dumbledore to let him in? But DADA was such a  _ Gryffindor _ subject! “But we’ll wait until Professor Flitwick before we start. I suppose I give some preparation. Has anyone here heard of the International Dueling Network?” Harry looked around the circle; Ron was nodding, as were Pavarti and Fay and Neville. Hermione had a frown on her face. Harry assumed she didn’t know; it sounded sports-related. “Mr. Weasley? Care to explain?”

Ron leaned back in his chair. Hermione looked annoyed. She had a thing about posture. “Well, it is what it sounds like, innit? It’s a worldwide dueling tournament sponsored by the International Confederacy of Wizards and the Wizarding League of Nations. My brother Bill competed a couple years ago.” People looked impressed. Harry looked doubtful. Dueling was easier than those awful trials that the Triwizard Tournament did. But he didn’t want to think about Cedric. He thought of Cho, her face hesitant. He pushed the thought away.

“Correct, Mr. Weasley. But do you know why it stands and what it stands for?”

Hermione raised her hand. “International cooperation?”  
Professor Mitarashi grinned satanically. The class shivered. “Cold war.”

“What?” Hermione demanded. Mitarashi proceeded to explain, and Harry was intrigued enough to listen for once.

Apparently the Wizarding World followed muggle politics, too. The former communist bloc had its own confederation of wizards, only somewhat integrated into the International Confederacy of Wizards. Little dialogue happened between the various states before the fall of the Berlin wall, except in international emergencies--wizards fighting off Stalin’s men in the Ukraine, local warlocks trying to defend their villages against Agent Orange in Vietnam. The general attitude from the Far West was to let muggles suffer; the general attitude from the East was to avoid their dictator’s wrath. The Statute of Secrecy had to be upheld, it was agreed, but at whose cost? Tensions rose, especially as terrorist groups cropped up in Italy, in Germany, in Japan, in Ireland--magical governments were afraid of fringe groups joining these movements, in order to strike a more effective blow against magical partition. The International Duelling Network developed into a way young, reckless, and talented duelists could represent their countries and fight against a perceived enemy, with East German wizards fighting against the West, Russians trying to take out Americans, the British trying to exert their superiority--without falling into an act of war.

“I participated in the 1984 tournament,” Professor Mitarashi grinned. “Though I was much younger, and only in a team melee challenge. But you have some champions among your professors. I thought it good to show you what they are capable of, with Defense magic, and what you might be able to do too.”

Blank faces surrounded her. Harry squinted, confused. Did she want them to fight for Britain’s honor?  
“Not like that. The days of cold war are over. But to release your disputes in a violent but legal and effective fashion, that will not kill anyone, that will not cause an international incident. Hogwarts holds a four-time champion, after all.” Mitarashi leaned forward. “Guess who?”

 

Severus was not in a good mood. Potter had blown up a Potions and then looked appalled when Snape had told him to write an essay on his mistakes, Longbottom then managed to calcify his, and then Finnegan, always fiery, managed to set Zabini on fire. That was less of a surprise because Blaise was always lounging picturesquely, but he had expected more from one of his Slytherins, especially one with such a mother. Finnegan had also looked surprised that he had gotten angry, as Zabini attempted to douse the flames without ruining his already burning robes. When the class had finally filed out, Severus had an ache behind his right eye, some viscous liquid attached to the ceiling of the dungeon, and the stink of burnt wool filling his nostrils.

Filius had walked into his classroom to see Severus with his head buried in his arms. “Oh, there, there, Severus,” he laughed. “It couldn’t have been that bad, could it?”

Severus, without looking up, aimed a finger at the ceiling. Potter’s potion flopped onto the floor and began to hiss.

“Ah,” Filius said. “Managed to negate the effects of the emulsifier, did he?”

“Armadillo bile isn’t even in the Iside Rosse.” Severus peered over his arms. “I don’t know what he was thinking, but the clearest explanation was that he wasn’t, at all. They never do.” They commiserated over the disaster that was a Gryffindor-Slytherin class, Severus slipped a headache draught into his pocket, and they strode off to the Defense classroom, ready to relive their glory days.

“Oh, let’s make an entrance,” Filius squeaked. Severus cast him an amused glance. “Full strength and thunder. I’ll cast a long shadow, and you billow your robes.”

“It’s the wind,” Severus said.

“It’s the wind--you have the enchantment stitched straight into your clothes, you Slytherin. Remember, I taught you. And your brother. Just because you don’t wear particolor hose like he did doesn’t mean you don’t share his same sense of drama.”

“He still wears it,” Severus said gloomily. “The ugliest hose. Albus would be proud.”

They made their entrance. The Gryffindors looked awed, then horrified, then doubtful. Severus sneered. Potter, in particular, looked disgusted--probably at the idea of Snivellus going and representing the United Kingdom rather than one of his Golden Gryffindors. The ache behind his right eye began to pulse again.

“Professor Snape won the ‘78, ‘84, ‘87, and ‘89 tournaments,” Mitarashi introduced. Severus inclined his head slightly. “Professor Flitwick won in ‘53, ‘67, and ‘72, if I remember correctly.” She smirked at the Charms professor.

“It’s been awhile,” Flitwick chirped happily. “You forget that I fought Severus here in ‘84, and coached him in ‘78.”

“I remember ‘84,” Mitarashi dimpled. It was quite unsettling. Severus slid a glance down to Filius and met his eyes. “I participated in the team challenge, with Kurenai Yuuhi and Aoba Yamashiro. The Gallant Toad Sage Jiraiya was our leader--coach, as you said.”

Severus started slightly. “Jiraiya the Sannin? I have corresponded with him.”

“You also defenestrated him,” Mitarashi said, trying not to grin but failing on purpose. Severus’ lips thinned. Filius was outright giggling. “But for honorable reasons. Anyway!” The professors put their professional faces back on and faced the class as one, rather unintentionally. Severus could tell Dean Thomas noticed and was amused. He made a mental note to tease him in class. He watched Thomas begin to doodle on a piece of parchment: a caricature, no doubt. Yes, he would definitely get back at him in class, and he could feel Filius plotting too. “I have gathered the professors here today to show you a clip from the ‘84 tournament, so they may answer any questions you may have about professional dueling. And if there is time, Professor Snape and I may have a practice match.” She flashed a grin at him. Severus remained stoic. He could see Lavender Brown’s eyes calculating, and could already imagine the gossip. “Gather around the pensieve, please.”

The class did not move.

“The dish on the podium,” Severus said. “Do use your powers of deduction.”

The class moved. The professors moved with them. Mitarashi pulled out a glowing vial. “A pensieve is a memory storage device that allows one to watch a memory from a third party perspective. We’re going to be watching a memory of one particularly salient,” somebody had been hitting the dictionary, Severus thought, “match from the 1978 IDN tournament, woven from our memories.” She poured it in, and the fog circled the circumference of the disc before settling in the center. “Plunge in!”


	5. The International Dueling Network

Harry Potter and the Cursed Mark: A Book Five Crossover  
Chapter 5: The International Dueling Network, pg. 28-35, 3805 words  
Anko Mitarashi was nervous. It was her first public tournament since Orochimaru defected, though she wasn’t competing in this one. Kushina-sensei had gotten them a box with the British contingent; apparently a young wizard she had met at a diplomatic party at a school was participating in the journeyman games this year, and she wanted to talk to his allies. A young blond couple with haughty bearing greeted Kushina-sensei, but ignored her. A less haughty blonde woman smiled at her, next to a old man tugging on his braid. He was short, but not as short as the figure next to him, who introduced himself as Filius Flitwick, young Severus Snape’s coach.  
“Kushina Uzumaki, of the Village Hidden in the Leaves!” Sensei struck a pose, then gestured at Anko. “And this is my apprentice, Anko Mitarashi!”  
“Edward Elric, the Baron von Hohenheim,” said the short old man. He had a slight German accent, but still spoke good Japanese. “The Technomagic Alchemist. Elric for short. And my daughter, Theresa. That young man may become my journeyman. Where’s Horace?”  
Flitwick seemed apologetic, and answered in English. “There’s a Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers conference next week. Horace is presenting a paper--”  
The old man--Baron Elric--made an impatient gesture. “And this Snape isn’t there? Horace’s been raving about him for years--”  
“Severus has always been interested in the intersection of alchemy and the fighting arts,” Flitwick said, sounding diplomatic.  
The haughty blonde woman turned up her nose. She looked like one of them had farted, right in her face. Flitwick looked guilty. Anko filed away the information for later, a habit left over from the Orochimaru days. Kushina-sensei wouldn’t care, would she? But she was interested in this man’s welfare. She glanced at Sensei.  
“I met Severus at one of Horace’s little garden parties,” Kushina-sensei said cheerfully, in English. “I believe you were there, Mrs. Malfoy. You were Miss Black then, no? Was it two years ago?”  
“Yes,” Mrs. Malfoy said, “I am recently married. This is my husband, Lucius.”  
Lucius inclined his head. “Charmed,” he said. He didn’t sound like it.  
“I admired both of yours,” Kushina paused. “Both of youses? You all’s? Application of seal-writing to dueling, in Horace’s display tournament. I would like to try my hand against yours, some day.”  
Mrs. Malfoy favored her with what seemed like a genuine smile. Anko was surprised. It softened her chiselled features and made her look warm, just for a bit. “I would enjoy that. Someday.” Her face reminded Anko of how Orochimaru’s eyes would occasionally seem to glitter when she did something well, when she pushed her body harder and ended up the better in a fight, when she survived a blow that should have stunned her, should have killed her. Her cursed mark itched. She put her hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Kushina moved a little closer and placed her hand on top of hers, channeling a little bit of soothing chakra into the seal.  
“It’s my apprentice’s first international tournament,” Sensei said.  
“You shinobi take them on so young,” Elric complained.  
His daughter, Theresa, said suddenly, in better Japanese, “Look. The match is about to begin.” She switched to English. “Your Snape and Evan Rosier.”  
“French?” asked Kushina.  
“Hogwarts,” answered Mr. Malfoy. “They were in the same year. Friends and rivals.”  
Kushina grinned. “Who do you think will win? Care to bet on it?”  
Mr. Malfoy’s eyes glittered. “A gentleman never turns down a bet. A galleon on Rosier.”  
Mrs. Malfoy pursed her lips. “It pains me to disagree with my husband so early in our marriage, but I must. Severus will definitely win.”  
Kushina shrugged. “Rosier wasn’t at the exhibition. Professor Flitwick?”  
Flitwick puffed out his chest. It might have been impressive, if he had been taller than Anko. “I coached Severus myself.”  
“Baron von Hohenheim?”  
“I have no opinion.”  
“Miss Elric?”  
The quiet blonde smiled at Anko conspirately. She said to Kushina, “I’ll save my bets for later.”

Severus knew Evan, he knew his fighting style, and he knew how he could lose. Evan had better endurance and better precision, and knew how to goad him into losing his focus. But Evan was slower and Severus was stronger--he didn’t know not to goad him into losing his temper, like Potter’s gang had learned during their last Hogsmeade weekend. Severus knew he had a nasty streak, and he knew he could use it; that what Dark Arts was about, learning to channel oneself into a totally productive force, the pain and the rage into power. Still his hands were shaking at his sides when he entered the arena. Evan was already waiting for him, the prick, a slow smile on his face. Severus was going to wipe that pureblood smirk off his face and into the crowd.  
“Alright, Severus?” Evan said mildly. He held his wand loosely. Severus could see he thought he was going to win--rumors of all his lost matches against Potter’s gang working against him, then. But those were four against one, and he was winning by sixth year.  
“Evan. Life after graduation treating you well?” He hated the niceties, but Flitwick and Slughorn had insisted they were important. The crowd was dizzingly silent. They must be able to hear his every word, through those enchanted walls. He best be careful, then.  
“Oh, you know. The grand tour. Yourself? Heard back from that apothecary?” Rosier tossed back. Snape’s hand tightened around his wand: pureblooded little shit. Lucius said that his father was pressing him straight into politics, following Rosier Senior into meetings of the Wizengamot and, more clandestinely, into meetings with that self-styled Dark Lord, who had started issuing death threats to prominent Muggled-blood supporters.  
Severus slid into a fighting stance, wand raised over his head, other hand out. He was concentrating on summoning runes to his fingertips, if he could get close enough to Rosier to mark him--  
“Confringo!”  
“Expelliarmus! Flagrante!” Evan wouldn’t drop his wand, so why not heat up the wood until he drops it? Could wand wood combust? Severus parried a nastier Blasting Curse, one that nearly made him budge backward--but as soon as he gave ground, Evan would take it. He tried to jerk him in the air, his Levicorpus, but Evan felt the magic and sent it rushing towards him with a gale of fire, and Severus just blew it away.  
When the smoke cleared, Evan’s eyes were narrowed, and the easy grin had faded. Severus’ face remained blank. He met his eyes and thought, Legilimens! Evan tried a wordless Expelliarmus and was readying to follow it up with fire but Severus snapped a jet of water back at him that he twisted round Evan’s arm and froze it, but still Evan did not drop his wand and Severus could feel Evan getting impatient, getting angry, they both threw stunners at each other and Severus was beginning to sweat, he could feel Evan’s desperation, and finally Evan realized what happened and broke eye contact.  
“Ocuclaeco!” Evan screeched.

“Ah,” the new Mrs. Malfoy said. “I was wondering when he would remember.”  
Filius glanced at her. “Severus has been practicing…?” He drifted off, hoping it would prompt Mrs. Malfoy into filling the story. He wanted Elric to hear it. Snape needed an excuse to get out of the country. Every Slytherin did, really.  
Mrs. Malfoy looked pleased. She wanted him to know this, then, and that meant Hogwarts in particular and his duelling contacts in general. “Severus was always a natural Occlumens. He used to torment Bella by meeting her eyes and refusing to budge during house meetings, when we were first years. Legilimency was just a natural step. Not that he ever used it without consent or outside a duelling match,” she added, watching his face carefully. Filius was amused: a natural Occlumens with a sour expression, a prodigal Legilimens with the most piercing eyes a student out of Ravenclaw had--for a shielded mind, he really did wear his heart on his sleeve, his emotions playing on his face.  
He let her preen. Doubtless she credited herself with pointing Snape in the Mind Arts’ direction. She didn’t know he had given him the pass to the Forbidden Section, all those years ago. Filius studied Lucius Malfoy’s form, but he was just intent on the match, face stern. The Japanese witch and her little apprentice were talking excitedly. Elric just looked annoyed.  
“What does this boy have to do with Potions?” he complained. “Why isn’t Horace here?”  
“Mental discipline is useful in all arts,” his daughter said blandly. Filius got the feeling she was scoring points off her father. Elric grimaced.  
“But not in excess,” Elric said.  
“Discipline and an orderly life are habits for excellence,” the daughter said piously. Filius got the feeling they were having an argument he should not be made privy to. He tuned into the Japanese witch’s conversation, hoping to pick up a bit of language.  
“Oh, pardon,” Uzumaki said, in English. “It looks to me Severus is able to anticipate Rosier’s moves. It is a bloodline talent in our village, one I thought exclusive. I did not know it could be trained.” She looked pleasant, but Filius sensed an undercurrent of worry. Albus would know more about it, and Elric definitely, if he could tease it out of him.  
The crowd roared. Rosier was getting desperate, the magic lashing out more and more viciously, but Severus remained quick on his feet. Their curses were getting nastier, beyond blasting and breaking and going to mashing and rotting and blinding. Severus kept casting with quick, assured parries; Rosier refused to look him in the eyes.  
They chased each other around the stadium, Severus throwing some Transfiguration into the mix, raining down water that turned to gasoline which he ignited with a clap of his hands. Elric whistled.  
“I see where the alchemy comes in,” he said to Filius. “But still--where is the potions?”

Rosier’s weakening, Severus could feel it, could feel the strain in the ropes of thorny magic that encircled him, and so he summoned acid rain, a joke he came up with for Lily, reading books on Greek statues and ruins years ago. Evan was panting, so was he, so he steadied a second to guess how Rosier would react to the rain, and Rosier’s eyes were wide and Severus saw that he was going to try to make him mad--  
“Filthy mudblood millrat,” he shouted, “you think a bit of fire’s going to beat me?” Rosier whipped his wand around, summoning the fire about him, the flames spinned like a vortex and grew stronger and stronger. The crowd gasped. Severus thought, oh shit. The fire roared like a wolf, it began to march toward him. He did the only same thing he could think of. He apparated behind Rosier’s back, and slapped a reversed Fehu right onto the reckless idiot’s neck. Rosier collapsed, but the maelstorm continued to grow.

“And this is why we don’t play with dark magic,” Elric singsonged. “Riza, this is why I tell you not to play with combustion magic and guns. Any bets on if Snape survives?”  
Anko tugged on Kushina-sensei’s sleeve. “He’s got to be an Uchiha. He’s not pretty, but he was reading that guy’s mind! Not even Orochimaru-sama could do that! Look what he’s doing with the fire!”  
Snape had his wand up his sleeve, both hands out. He traced Hagalaz, causing the fire to burn so high the crowd screamed, people in the stadium seats throwing themselves back in their alarm, and clapped his hands again and traced out Nauthiz and Jera. The fire stilled, and slowly began to fall. Snape drew his wand, and, singing, quartered a circle. The verse changed. “Cen byþ cwicera gehwam, cuþ on fyre,” his voice filled the stadium, and the Fiendfyre pulsed and began to circle around him, “blac ond beorhtlic, byrneþ oftust, ðær hi æþelingas inne restaþ.” He clapped his hands and quartered the circle again, dividing the fire into four flames. He sang again, “Is byþ ofereald, ungemetum slidor, glisnaþ glæshluttur gimmum gelicust, flor forste geworuht, fæger ansyne.” The flames split to four animals: a lion, an eagle, a serpent, and a badger, and began to ice over. The crowd was spellbound. Anko stared at him, speechless. Not even Hokage-sama could wrought chakra so beautifully, though admittedly the war did not allow such beauty. Orochimaru could make a technique that beautiful, though. She drew closer to Kushina, hand over her mark.  
Snape clapped his hands again and declared, “Weorþeþ hit to wætere syððan!” The ice sculptures melted. Rosier began to stir. Snape stunned him wordlessly, threw him over his shoulders, and staggered out of the arena. The crowd went wild.  
“He’s got style,” Riza Elric said to her father, and winked at Anko.

The Gryffindors came out gasping. Snape was speaking urgently to Mitarashi, ignoring Filius, who was getting so frustrated he squeaked.  
“I thought Fiendfyre was dark magic,” Hermione said.  
“Evan Rosier was a Death Eater,” Neville said. “What--”  
“I didn’t even know you could incant in battle,” Seamus interrupted, “I always thought was--”  
“Snape was one tough dude,” Dean said, awed.  
“Rosier called him a-a you-know-what,” Harry said slowly. “What?”  
“Silence!” thundered Snape. “To your seats!” Instinctively the Gryffindors scattered and sat. Snape looked pissed, eyes wide like a frightened horse, but his breathing was disturbingly regular. Even Harry could see him counting in his head. He stepped back, and Professor Flitwick stepped forward.  
“Our apologies for the vividness of the Pensieve experience,” he squeaked, then cleared his throat. In a deeper voice, he resumed, “Normally we would have been deposited in a third party perspective, but the distancer spell failed with such a large group. Please remember this took place seventeen years ago, and we have changed since.”  
Snape edged to Flitwick’s other side, away from Mitarashi. Mitarashi said, “What I would like the class to do is to take out a piece of parchment and write three questions you would like to ask us about the use of defense magic in that match. Two minutes!” She glanced at Snape. The class subsided in the rustling of bags and the scratching of quills.  
Harry did not even know where to begin: Snape thought of Potter’s gang, Snape thought of Lily, Snape was called a mudblood even though he was a Slytherin? Was the Lily his Lily? His mother? Lupin had told him Snape used to fight with him and Sirius and his dad when they were kids, but the sheer satisfied hatred in the stream of thoughts frightened him. The magic had been incredible. Finally, Harry wrote, “Is there a countercurse to Fiendfyre? What is Legilimens? Why was Rosier not suspended for Dark Magic?” He looked up from his paper. Snape was tight-lipped and staring at him. They met each other’s eyes, and Harry wondered if he saw his father every time he looked. Snape looked away. Harry blinked, surprised.  
“All done?” Mitarashi asked. A general sense of anticipation answered her. Ron nudged Harry, to glance over his paper. Harry shrugged. “Okay, hands up--” Everyone’s hands shot up. Mitarashi laughed. “Don’t think I’ll ever see a class so eager again. Miss Dunbar?”  
“What was the song you sang?” Fay Dunbar demanded. “Was that incanting?”  
“One question at a time,” Flitwick reminded. Fay blushed.  
Snape spoke, “Verses from an Anglo-Saxon rune poem.” The class stirred. Was that it?  
Lavender raised her hand. Mitarashi nodded at her. “What did it translate to?”  
“The mouth is the source of all language, a pillar of wisdom and a comfort to wise men, a blessing and a joy to every knight,” Snape said meditatively. The class grew silent. His voice seemed to spread over the stone walls and fill the weak sunlight, coming in through the windows. “The torch is known to every living man by its pale, bright flame; it always burns where princes sit within.” The sunlight grew brighter. It seemed to illuminate Snape, bringing color to his skin. His eyes seemed deer-dark. “Ice is very cold and immeasurably slippery; it glistens as clear as glass and most like to gems; it is a floor wrought by the frost, fair to look upon.” The floor below Harry’s feet seemed to grow colder. “And then it melts into water.” The cold stopped, the sun dimmed. The class as one let loose a breath, and then, looking at each other fondly, laughed. Snape did not smile.  
Neville raised his hand. “I-is-is-isn’t Fi-fi-fiendfyre d-dark?” he stammered.  
“Yes,” clipped Snape. “Few have the control to summon it properly.”  
Hermione asked, “Why did no one intervene when Rosier used the Conjunctivitis Curse? Hasn’t it been banned for sixty years now?”  
Flitwick stepped in. “Miss Granger, there is a difference between Ministry law and international dueling regulation. Magic carpets, for example, are banned here, but legal in most of the world. Evan Rosier was put on a Ministry watchlist when he returned to our country, but so was myself, for having taught him and co-sponsored him. Though Professor Snape was my champion.”  
Hermione raised her hand again, but Mitarashi nodded at Ron instead. He flushed, and looked at her to make sure. “Uh, um, what is technomagic alchemy?”  
“We call it technomancy nowadays,” Flitwick answered. “But it is the study of where Muggle science and magic alchemy meet. Edward Elric, the Baron von Hohenheim, more or less invented the field. His daughter, Riza, designs weaponry for mixed-magic ICW intervention taskforces. Professor Snape worked with them on the pharmaceutical end of viral curses.”  
Hermione was furiously scribbling notes. Harry and Ron rolled their eyes at her. Harry raised his hand.  
“Professor Mitarashi, I have a class to teach in an hour,” Snape said. “Perhaps you would like to continue with the lesson, rather than leave us to be gaped at. I’m afraid some of our students have not succeeding in learning to cogitate and respirate with their mouths closed.” Hermione looked personally insulted, but Harry brushed it off. That was weak, for Snape. He hadn’t insulted their parentage again. He felt uneasy. Snape was steadfastedly looking straight, not at Harry. Normally he would be grateful, but Harry wondered. He raised his hand.  
“Right,” Mitarashi said. “Just one last question. Mr. Potter?”  
Harry put his hand down. “What’s a Legilimens?”  
Mitarashi and Flitwick looked at Snape, who parted his lips slightly and then twisted them. “A Legilimens,” he said slowly, “is able to glimpse the emotive and visual triggers of another’s consciousness, through eye contact and occasionally through skin. I take it you have heard the phrase ‘getting lost in another’s eyes’? The human pysche takes a labyrinthine pattern, and it is easy to become lost in the dead thoughts and stream of images that shape the field of thought. It is not an art taught in the classroom, but from master to apprentice, and sparingly at that.” Harry looked at Hermione. She look fascinated. He hoped she wouldn’t try to ask Snape to teach her. Snape would probably bite her head off, just for coming to his office hours, and then roast her alive for presuming on his time without being a Slytherin. Harry knew Dean and Lavender occasionally went to Snape’s office hours, and Seamus was occasionally dragged along with them, but who would want extra hours with the git? He opened his mouth to ask more questions--involuntary possession?--but Professor Mitarashi stepped forward and cut him off.  
“Thank you, class, for your interesting and varied questions,” she said rotely. “I’d like you to think about how dark magic was used in that match, and how it was countered. What would you do if you encountered Fiendfyre? How do you counter a blinding curse? What makes the Conjunctivitis Curse worse than a hyperpowed Lumos? I’d like six inches on one way the young Professor Snape countered dark magic in that battle, and what you would have done. Due next class. But now, for something more interesting!” She clapped her hands. The pillar holding the pensieve sank into the floor. She and Professor Snape stepped forward, but Professor Flitwick stepped back. Professor Mitarashi snapped her fingers. A transparent blue barrier set around the circle, separating the students at their desk from the two professors in the ring. She strode to the opposite extent of the circle, away from Professor Snape. She gestured grandly. “We’re going to give you a demonstration of that same match, without the dark magic. I promise Professor Snape will still be breathing when I’m done with him.”  
Professor Snape drew his wand. “Shall we begin?”

He had a steady throbbing pain over his right eye. His vision was not blurring yet, but everything had a greenish cast, and even the sunlight filtering through the window was flaring in the edges of his eyesight. Severus sized Mitarashi up: short, curvy, definitely busty--more likely to dodge and engage long-distance, than go in for the kill. She was more tone than muscle, and nowhere near as muscular as the other ninja he met, from poor Kushina to Jiraiya the Sannin. Best of all, she was unused to channeling magic through a wand.  
Severus smirked. Mitarashi mirrored his expression. They circled around the room, wands pointed. They had agreed to keep it short--defensive spells, less flashy magic, anything that could not be found in a cannibal book in the Restricted Section. They hadn’t rehearsed it, but Mitarashi wanted to see his offensive mind magic, and Severus wanted a chance to decode her snake spells.  
Mitarashi flourished: “Expelliarmus!’  
“Legilimens!”  
The cursed mark spread like lines of fire tracing the lines of their their veins Orochimaru’s eyes glinted in the darkness black hair over his face like curtains “Come with me, if you feel like. It might be fun.” I will not I will not you killed her you killed her fire, fire in the eyes, fire in the blood she cried when I saw her last time she was so pregnant she said “Come with me, then, you coward.” I always lacked courage never good enough never fast enough only survived a fluke the whole squad my team everyone is dead--  
“FINITE INCANTATUM!” Severus roared, slashing his wand, and they both fell to the ground shaking. The ink retreated off his skin and flowed back onto Mitarashi, who curled up, hands over head. A high-pitched whining sound emerged from her body. Severus’ vision went white as a rictus of pain split his head, and vainly he covered his eyes. “Filius--headache,” he managed, before he blacked out.  
Only a few seconds later he woke to Filius crouching next to him, he grabbed the headache reliever and downed it. “The class?”  
“Dismissed it when the seal started traveling,” Filius said tersely. “What were you thinking?”   
Severus suddenly turned to his side and vomited. Mitarashi had stopped wailing, but was still curled into fetal position. He fought for consciousness, but green swallowed his vision, and it all turned black.


End file.
